


The Chamber of Secrets

by Kanene_Rose



Series: It Does Not Do to Dwell on Dreams [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Relationships, F/F, F/M, Jealousy, Parseltongue, Phoenix has a not-so-subtle girl crush, Unrequited Crush, mentions of possession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-02-26 13:11:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13236417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanene_Rose/pseuds/Kanene_Rose
Summary: With Lord Voldemort’s disappearance, Phoenix had been able to forget those horrid dreams. She has too much to think about anyway, what with Marinia moving out of the apartment and Harry not responding to any of her letters.It’s only when the Chamber of Secrets is opened that she begins to feel guilty. Sirius Black returns to puzzle her nightmares along with that unforgettable cackle that pierces her mind, always screaming: ‘She chose Slytherin. She belongs in Slytherin. She chose Slytherin.’(Sequel to 'The Sorcerer's Stone')A chapter-by-chapter retelling of the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters therein. Each chapter will be named after the one parallel to it in the original book.





	1. The Worst Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me through 'The Sorcerer's Stone' and I'm glad to see you back!

Phoenix had woken up at quarter past five to an odd, peaceful quiet. Having lived so long on Charing Cross Road, where Muggles and their automobiles would pass throughout the night, and then at the Hogwarts Castle, where something was almost always on her frantic mind, it was strange for Phoenix to wake up without any sort of distraction. She stayed in bed, sheets pulled up to her chin, and listened for anything.

But Marinia and Alexandria were both comparatively late sleepers. Over the past week, Phoenix had learned their respective schedules; she would have to wait nearly two hours before the older witch awoke for a long day of training at the Ministry and nearly _another_ hour before Alexandria was finally awake enough to start her own routine. A few minutes after seven, she heard Marinia’s clumsy footsteps make their way through the hall toward the kitchen. Phoenix waited until the kettle whistled to get up.

"Hey,” Marinia yawned, pouring two cups of tea. Her black hair was in knots and she was wearing two different patterned socks. “How’d you sleep?”

“Well enough,” she replied with a smirk. Phoenix grabbed a pile of disheveled _Daily Prophet_ newspapers off the coffee table and placed them on the couch arm. “Thanks for letting me stay here this past week.”

“Thank you for coming,” her sister said, turning toward her with a sad smile.

Marinia and Alexandria had had one problem after the other. While they had dealt with all of the financial stuff ahead of time (so that Mr. and Mrs. Skimple couldn’t interfere with their plans), the two girls had still had difficulty dealing with their parents. Though Alexandria’s father had given them his permission to live together—according to Marinia, he understood what their relationship was, though they had tried to hide their intentions—Mrs. Skimple and Mrs. King were adamant on having their little girls stay at home with their families until Marinia had locked in her position at the Ministry and Alexandria had finished school.

Even Mr. Skimple, who was normally so generous with the freedoms he granted his oldest children, thought it was a bad idea to move in with someone who had neither a means of paying her portion of the rent, nor the ability to live at the residence for most of the year. Since Alexandria would be attending Hogwarts for nearly nine full months, with very infrequent breaks until summer, he wasn’t so sure that his daughter would end up happy with her choice of roomy at all. At least he was thinking of Marinia’s happiness, Phoenix thought, and not with his own.

Once their parents had begrudgingly decided to give them their ‘permission’ to move in together, packing had become a hassle. Marinia, especially, had a difficult time figuring out what things she could and could not bring into the new apartment—what would fit, what wouldn’t fit, what she needed that she didn’t have at home already. The bookshelf, bedframe, and desk she’d wanted to bring from home couldn’t be put in without making it difficult to enter or make your way around a room, so she decided, in the end, to leave these where they were in her old bedroom, which broke her heart a bit. Worse than packing was _unpacking._ Between her job and her new household duties, she had little time to unpack _,_ and so Alex had been left to do most of it…but since she wasn’t sure where everything was meant to go, she either left it in the open box, which caused arguments, or accidentally chose a place where Marinia didn’t want it, which caused worse arguments.

Most of the furniture that was brought in had been purchased as a sort of house-warming present by Alexandria’s dad: the rocking chair, couch, and coffee table that Marinia said constituted a ‘living room,’ one of two full-sized beds, and a small dining table, which had been shoved into the corner of the kitchen directly beneath the room’s only window. Every bit was littered in newspapers, textbooks, Ministry documents, and miscellaneous things that had recently come out of cardboard boxes. But Phoenix didn’t mind the mess; they had rushed through things in order to make the apartment feel homey and comfortable for her stay.

“It’s really quiet here,” Phoenix said, glancing at the spines of the books Alexandria had set out on the coffee table.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Marinia grinned, happily this time. She grabbed a cup in each hand and made her way to the living room, which was separated from the kitchen by a half wall. “The only other person in the building is some bloke who writes those cheesy star sign books—the ones that are so inaccurate they could have been written by a Muggle. Turned his apartment into a study so that he can write in peace…Even asked us if we’d mind not making any noise at night, because that’s when he becomes _inspired by the cosmos’ light_ , or something to that effect. He was a total nutter, but I’m not about to complain.

“Are you hungry?” she asked as she sat down, almost as if it were an afterthought. It wasn’t the first time Phoenix had noticed her almost forgetting to eat.

“You’ve been skipping breakfast?” Phoenix raised her eyebrows. It wasn’t really a question. “That’s not like you.”

Marinia let her eyes drop to her tea cup.

“How do you always do that?” she asked. She didn’t seem angry, more discouraged. She sighed and took a deep breath. “Anyway, I bought some bread for toast yesterday—we were almost out—and I think there might be some jam left…Now that I think about it, Alex might have finished it off.”

“It’s fine,” Phoenix smiled. “As long as you both have everything you need.”

“Her dad’s been giving us a little each week for food, since he reasoned he’d normally be paying for it anyway,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to accept at first, but things are a little tighter than we expected.”

She thought a moment, sipping her tea and staring out the kitchen window.

“You’re only twelve years old,” she laughed softly. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. You don’t need to hear it.”

“It’s fine.”

Marinia shook her head.

“I’ve got to get dressed. I should be at the Ministry for eight.”

 

While Marinia was preparing for the day, Phoenix stayed on the couch, perusing through the papers and textbooks that Alex had left as a nod to decoration. She wanted to be surrounded by knowledge, she said, even while Hogwarts was out of session. The _Daily Prophet_ , which was Alexandria’s favorite newspaper, had been marked with little notes on nearly every section. Phoenix noticed that the girl had paid extra attention to articles about education, and doubly so on those few that mentioned political connections or government influence at Hogwarts; while most of her notes were simple dissections and criticisms on the writing itself, these comments tended to include her own opinion on the content and questions that would delve deeper into the subject.

Marinia said a quick goodbye while Phoenix was still engrossed in an interesting article on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post at Hogwarts, which remained open. It seemed nobody wanted to take the position after Quirrell’s death, even though the entire story about Voldemort’s failed returned hadn’t been published.

“They mention you,” Alex said, startling Phoenix out of her thoughts. She was standing at the mouth of the hallway with one hip and one shoulder leaning against the wall. “Page 5 of the one on bottom—yes, _that_ one. They don’t say your name or anything, but it’s definitely you.”

Phoenix quickly scanned the page and found the quote with relative ease.

 _“‘In the midst of such a mystery, it is believed that only a single survivor has any recollection of the full events. Hogwarts’s Headmaster Dumbledore, however, has denied all access to the supposed student, claiming that they are being kept on bed rest in the school’s hospital wing indefinitely,’”_ she read aloud, smiling at how upset the writer had sounded at having been barred from questioning the only witness. “You’re right. I just wonder why they told them so much in the first place.”

“Someone was bound to hear something from one of your classmates,” Alexandria said. She stifled a yawn as she trudged to the kitchen. “Did you have any breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

“I hid some bacon behind the eggs—Reenie never touches those—so we’d have some left over for you.” She shifted items to the side and twisted her face so that a small dimple formed at the left corner of her mouth. “You don’t have to have it if you don’t want to, though. We also have some toast, jam—um…eggs…and some treats from Honeyduke’s. Just don’t tell your parents that I offered you candy for breakfast.”

Alexandria’s strawberry blond hair was somehow perfect for someone who was still in their pajamas; Phoenix wondered how long she’d been awake.

“Toast sounds wonderful,” the smaller girl laughed, “but I wouldn’t say no to a Pumpkin Pasty if you have one.”

The Hufflepuff prefect put four slices of bread on a plate, sprinkled on some strange, purplish seasoning, and smiled.

“First time I’ve done that without burning them,” she said as she lifted the plate over the half wall to reveal four perfectly done pieces of golden toast. “I know it’s no big accomplishment, but—”

“Of course it is.” When Alex shot her a questioning glance, she added, “Even Mum can’t do that, and she’s been trying that stuff for _ages_. Finally gave up and learned a spell, but that hasn’t gone swimmingly either.”

The strange, contemplative glint did not leave Alex’s eyes, but Phoenix had at least succeeded in making her smile. She went back to scanning the newspaper comments while the Hufflepuff placed two teas, a bowl of sugar, the plate of toast, and two Pumpkin Pasties onto a small serving try and carried it to the couch.

“Thank you,” Phoenix muttered, thoroughly invested in an article about a journalist who’d gone missing, only to be rediscovered nearly a decade later without a wand and able to speak the dialect of the local selkies fluently. “This is rather interesting, don’t you think? They say they’re going to publish her autobiography with a companion book on the language itself.”

“I think it’s all made up…the disappearance, I mean. I’ve done my research and there was no report of anyone by that name going missing, last decade or any other,” she sighed, unwrapping her pasty. “Either it’s a publicity stunt, or the _Daily Prophet_ should come out with an apology for not disclosing that information on one of its own reporters.

“Have you heard back from any of your friends?” she added, taking a seat in the rocking chair.

“Ron and Hermione both have responded. Apparently, Harry hasn’t spoken to _any_ of us this summer,” Phoenix sighed, taking a slice of toast. “We’re starting to get worried about him. Ron even wants to put together a sort of rescue mission. He’s invited me over his house, too, but I told him that I’m staying here until Sunday.”

Alexandria shifted her gaze to the coffee table.

“You can go if you want to. Marinia and I understand.”

It took Phoenix a moment to realize that Marinia and Alexandria were lonely. It wasn’t that they didn’t have company—coworkers, friends, family members who insisted on frequent visits home, and, most importantly, each other—but there was something lacking at their new apartment. Whether it was some sense of normalcy, or the presence of someone who understood and accepted their relationship, she wasn’t certain. She only knew that they’d seemed happier than ever to see her the previous Monday, when she’d arrived for her visit, and had been getting gloomier since Mrs. Skimple had sent them an owl on Wednesday to ask when Phoenix would be going home.

“I know,” she said, head angled slightly. “Unless you guys would rather I leave. I understand that there are—problems, I guess—with, um, the rent and stuff.”

“We don’t have a lot of money, if that’s what you mean,” Alex laughed; Phoenix was glad this hadn’t turned out into an awkward conversation. “But we expected that. It’s hit us a lot harder than we thought it would, I’ll give you that, but it doesn’t mean we don’t have enough to get by.”

“Then I want to stay.”

“Good,” she teased, scrunching up her face so that she had a dimple again.

 

*              A             *              S              *              B             *

 

_Ron,_

_If you’re going to be getting Harry, be careful. I just finally got your letter last night (I’m keeping Errol here for the time being. He didn’t seem well enough to fly) and so I don’t know whether or not he’s already there with you, but, if he isn’t, I think it would be better to let your parents take charge of this one. I’m worried about Harry, too, but they can handle this without getting owls from the Ministry about improper use of magic. _

_I don’t mean to sound critical, I just don’t want you guys getting into any trouble._

_Also, I told Alex and Marinia that I’d be staying until Sunday. You said your dad wanted to come over and help move my trunks for Hogwarts anyway, so why don’t we meet at the new apartment Sunday evening? Marinia has her fireplace connected to the Floo network, of course. Getting in and out should be easy (Mum and Dad still don’t have a Floo grate. Lugging all of Marinia’s things into a car and then into the new apartment was insanely tricky. I don’t know how Muggles do it.)_

_Please do tell me if you hear from Harry._

_Nyx_

 

Hemera was sitting in her cage down the hall, cleaning her feathers and ignoring the Weasley family’s old, grey owl, who had slumped into the corner the moment he’d been put down. Phoenix thought about giving Hemera the letter, then thought better of it. Instead, she pulled out a second piece of parchment and began to write:

 

_Hermione,_

_Ron says he’s going to try to find out what’s going on with Harry. I’ve told him to let his parents take care of it…that’s really all I know for now._

_Also, I’m going to visit Ron’s family. If everything goes as planned, I’ll be over there Sunday night. He’s invited me for the remainder of the summer. I was wondering if you wanted to plan a day to go to Diagon Alley for our supplies some time next week? It’d be really nice to see you before school starts._

_Love,_

_Nyx_

She made her way to the spare bedroom, tied both letters to Hemera’s leg, and gave her instructions to deliver Ron’s message first. The tawny owl looked out of the window—both ways, as if she were about to cross the street—and jumped. Phoenix was suddenly hit with a gloomy realization: she had already read every book she’d brought with her to the apartment, so there was nothing new to learn; she’d reviewed her school notes, so there was nothing from the previous term she didn’t remember; and, being underage, she wasn’t allowed to use magic outside of Hogwarts, so there was nothing to practice. She fell backward onto the bed and stared at the ceiling for a long, long time.

Alexandria was in the room beside hers, finishing her homework for sixth year, and Marinia was still at the Ministry. Phoenix had known they’d be busy when she’d agreed to stay with them at the apartment, but she hadn’t expected to end up so _bored_ ; she’d thought her school things would occupy her until the weekend, at least.

Not being able to use magic was really taking its toll; just that day, she almost attempted a Summoning Charm _twice_ because she’d forgotten she wasn’t allowed to, and she had been tempted for some time to see how much wandless magic she could get away with before getting the Ministry’s attention.

She couldn’t believe it’d been over a month since she’d faced off against Lord Voldemort himself. Everything afterward had seemed extremely dull and slow. Without her wand, which her mother had decided to keep tucked away somewhere out of reach, it was almost as if she’d lost _everything_ —her magic, her purpose, her friends, her family (she knew it wouldn’t have made a difference if she _had_ her wand, because of the rules against underage magic, but the feeling of having it with her was somewhat redeeming in an odd way). It was maddening, to say the least, and she almost didn’t realize it was seven o’clock until Alexandria could be heard in the next room over, running toward the fireplace.


	2. Dobby's Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny is finally a real three-dimensional (Okay, maybe two-dimensional, I'm not gonna push it) character! Yay! She has real character traits now!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea how much your comments mean to me. You've all been so supportive so far, and I love knowing what you think, be it compliments, concerns, or downright criticisms. I want to write the best story that I can for you :)

The older witches had barely gone to sleep when Phoenix was pulled out of her thoughts by a tap on the kitchen window; a large screech owl was sitting on the sill. At first, Phoenix thought that it was Hedwig, finally delivering Harry’s belated response to his birthday card, but with one quick glance she realized that it was far too dark and slim to be her. She opened the window, watching as the bird jumped down onto the table, and untied the rolled-up parchment from its leg. After a gentle nip to her thumb, she remembered to give the owl its treat.

Inside, in the twins’ messy scrawl, was written:

_Dad said that Harry got a letter from the Ministry today for using magic in the company of Muggles. He also wants to know if four o’clock Sunday afternoon works for you? That would get you here in time to move your things into Ginny’s room before dinner._

_Also, we’re planning on going in a few days if Harry doesn’t respond. Don’t be a killjoy._

_Fred_

_P.S._

_We’ve borrowed Percy’s owl. He doesn’t know. Please send him back before morning. Thanks._

Phoenix wished there was a way to write back more instantaneously, but this, for now, would have to do: she wrote her response quickly on the back of the original letter, tied it to Hermes’s leg, and practically pushed him toward the window again.

 

*              A             *              S              *              B             *

 

The weekend passed in a flash. Marinia was let out early every Saturday, so that night they all cooked dinner together, which was a first for Phoenix. She was so used to being barred from the kitchen that she almost had no idea what to do when asked. They stayed up late to play board games—someone suggested chess, but Phoenix wasn’t ready to play that again, not yet—and slept in until almost noon the following morning.

“Rise and shine,” Marinia knocked on her door. “Come and get your breakfast.”

They cleaned off the kitchen table and ate beneath the window, which may not have been the best idea, since Hemera came swooping in just as they were setting down their food and dropped Hermione’s response right in Phoenix’s oatmeal. She pulled the soggy letter out of her breakfast and read it to herself.

“What’s it say?” Marinia asked.

Alex pretended to read it over Phoenix’s shoulder until she turned around and stuck out her tongue at the prefect.

“Hermione wants to go to Diagon Alley next Wednesday,” she muttered, still scanning through the bottom half of the letter. “ _‘We should be getting our school lists soon,’_ blah-blah-blah, _‘Have fun at Ron’s. Don’t let him do anything stupid…Tell me if you hear from Harry.’_ ”

Alex and Marinia were smiling like idiots. They’d seemed extremely giddy all morning and, after reading Hermione’s letter, Phoenix thought she knew why.

“If Hogwarts is sending out our lists soon,” she surmised, “that means you’ll be getting your O.W.L. scores any day now, right?”

Alex blushed and hid her face in her hands.

“She’s been so excited,” Marinia explained. “I’ve barely gotten her to shut up since she got the letter an hour ago.”

Phoenix turned to Alex, waiting for some sort of response, but received none; instead, the girl just began giggling, pulled an envelope from among the remaining books on the table, and handed it to the second year, who opened it carefully. It was obvious the Hufflepuff prefect had tried to remove only the wax seal, so that the rest of the envelope was undamaged.

 

**ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS**

 

**_Pass Grades                                                       Fail Grades_ **

OUTSTANDING (O)                                                  POOR (P)

EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS (E)                            DREADFUL (D)

ACCEPTABLE (A)                                                    TROLL (T)

 

**_Alexandria Lee King has achieved:_ **

****

Astronomy                                                 E

Arithmancy                                                O

Care of Magical Creatures                          O

Charms                                                      E

Defense Against the Dark Arts                   E

Herbology                                                 O

History                                                      E

Potions                                                     A

Transfiguration                                         A

 

                “Nine O.W.L.s!”

                “Yep,” Alexandria sighed, leaning her elbow on the table. “I can’t believe it. I thought that I was going to fail Potions, for sure. And I remembered a few of the questions from the Arithmancy exam, so, of course, I looked up all of the answers once I’d gotten back to my dormitory. There were two questions I’d gotten wrong at least…I was so worried I wouldn’t pass it.”

                “But instead you got an Outstanding,” Marinia smirked. “I told you not to doubt yourself.”

                Phoenix whipped around to face Marinia, who was grinning mischievously, holding something just out of sight on her lap.

                “You got your N.E.W.T. scores?” she asked.

                The older girl handed her an envelope, identical to the one she’d just opened from Alexandria, and Phoenix tore the letter from inside.

 

**_Marinia Juniper Skimple has achieved:_ **

****

Charms                                                    O

Defense Against the Dark Arts                  E

Herbology                                                E

Muggle Studies                                        O

Transfiguration                                        E

 

"Oh, Marinia, this is great!” Phoenix said, wrapping her arms around her sister’s shoulders. “This means you can apply for the Ministry position, doesn’t it?”

“I’m going to go show Mr. Weasley today,” she sighed. “He told me he wanted to know the moment I got my scores. Would you mind if I borrowed Hemera?”

“No, of course not.”

There wasn’t much they could do to celebrate, but Marinia found a few silver Sickles in her purse and bought each of them a sundae from Fortesque’s Ice Cream Parlor, which they ate slowly while window-shopping all the way down Diagon Alley that afternoon. Here and there, Alex would stop and make them take a look inside of one of the shops, but they never did buy anything.

At quarter past three, Phoenix remembered that she would soon be meeting the Weasleys at the apartment and the three of them made their way slowly to the nearest Floo grate.

 

“Have everything you need?” Marinia asked for the fifth time.

“Yes,” Phoenix held out the vowel.

“Textbooks, quills, ink, cauldron, wa—”

“Mum took my wand, remember?” Phoenix threw the last folded uniform into her cauldron with a huff. “She says I’ll get it back when school starts.”

Marinia and Alex shared a worried glance.

“I didn’t think she’d actually _take_ it.”

“Well,” Phoenix shrugged it off, dragging her trunk down the hallway, “it’s not like I could do anything with it anyway, right? Doesn’t matter if it’s in my hand or in a bread cupboard somewhere. Just as useless.”

She was bitter—both Marinia and Alex could hear it in her voice. She shouldered her trunk and carried all of her things to the living room by herself. The clock above the fireplace said it was three fifty-four.

“There’ll be here in a few minutes,” Phoenix sighed.

Alexandria came in from the spare bedroom, holding Hemera’s cage in one hand and cradling Errol in the crook of her left elbow.

"Who is this?” she laughed. “One of the Weasley owls?”

“ _The_ Weasley owl, as far as I can tell,” Phoenix said, taking the little grey thing into her arms. He placed him carefully into the cage again and put it on the kitchen table. “Percy the Prefect has his own one—Hermes, I think. Got it when he became a prefect—but everyone else at the Burrow shares this poor guy. Ron sent something the other day and I thought he looked a little too tired to fly home, so he’s been annoying Hemera ever since.”

“Are you certain you have everything?” Marinia asked again.

Phoenix sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Yes, I’m _sure_ I have everything. Why do you keep asking?”

A warm, emerald green flame sprung up in the fireplace and Phoenix had to take a step back into the kitchen; Mr. Weasley—a tall, thin man with bright, balding red hair, just like his children—was stumbling through the hearth followed by the twins, Ron, and finally Mrs. Weasley, a squat, kindly witch who Phoenix remembered from Platform 9¾.

"Wotcher, Nyx?”

“Not getting into anyone’s business—”

“Are we?”

The twins switched off, as they always did, and Phoenix couldn’t help but smirk; she’d waited a month to see their antics first-hand. They hugged her each around one shoulder, so that she was woven comfortably between them, and then moved aside so Ron could say hello. Behind him, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley watched on.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Phoenix, dear” the witch smiled. “Oh, and Marinia, I’ve heard so much about you from Arthur. How has your training been?”

Marinia brightened at a chance to bring up her work.

“Oh, it’s going wonderfully,” she beamed, voice uncharacteristically smooth, “and I’ve just gotten my scores this morning. I admit, I might have been a been enthusiastic when I sent them to you, Mr. Weasley. Sorry if it was an inconvenience.”

“No problem,” he reassured. He was still dusting some of the soot off his jacket when he reached into his pocket, pulled out a letter, and held it up proudly. “I got it on my way out this morning. Never seen someone get more Outstanding scores on their N.E.W.T.s than on their O.W.L.s. Brilliant.”

Phoenix saw Alexandria blush, which she thought odd, considering it was Marinia who was being praised.

“Meeting’s scheduled for Wednesday,” he continued, placing the envelope back into his pocket. “You’ll know whether you’re hired before the week is out.”

After a few minutes of discussing Marinia’s Ministry prospects, Mrs. Weasley asked the twins to help carry Phoenix’s school things. Fred took the trunk, George the cauldron, and Ron handled Hemera’s cage, sighing as he saw Errol laying lazily at the bottom. They each grabbed a handful of Floo powder, threw it into the flames, and disappeared in a whirl of emerald. Just as Phoenix was about to do the same, however, a hand reached out and touched her shoulder.

“Are you sure you have everything, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked innocently.

Out of the corner of her eye, Phoenix saw Marinia smirk.

“The only thing I don’t have is my wand, but Mum won’t give it back to me yet.” Phoenix shrugged. She reached into the pot above the fireplace and withdrew a handful of green powder, then realized that everyone—Mr. and Mrs. Weasley especially—was staring at her with varying degrees of disbelief and confusion. She stumbled, trying vaguely to explain, “Mum is keeping it. She…she didn’t want me having it over the summer.”

“Maybe if I—” Mr. Weasley started, but his wife cut him off.

“I’ll speak with your parents and see if they won’t make an exception, seeing as you’ll be staying with us. Do they have a Floo grate?”

“No,” Phoenix said, eyes falling to the floor. “We live on 9 Charing Cross Road, the top apartment above the bookshop there…It’s the street the Leaky Cauldron’s on, if that helps any.”

“Thank you, dear.”

 

*              A             *              S              *              B             *

 

Phoenix knew that she’d be staying with Ginny—a small, fiery-haired girl whose only notable feature, up until this point, was her shyness around, and eagerness to meet, the famous Harry Potter. The Gryffindor was surprised, therefore, when her temporary roommate turned out to be just as capable and confident as the twins themselves, if not a tad more level-headed.

Phoenix followed Fred, George, and Ron to the bedroom on the first-floor landing, where they dropped her things on one of two twin-sized beds, and offered to keep her company while she unpacked. She _would_ have accepted their help, except that, at that very moment, the youngest Weasley child came strutting into her room, holding an open magazine in one hand and a broomstick in the other.

“I think I’ll be fine,” Phoenix shied, tucking a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.

The boys filed out of the room rather quickly and George threw a knowing wink back at her before closing the door behind him.

“What was that about?” Ginny asked, placing the broom under a post of Gwenog Jones, the Captain of the all-female Quidditch team, the Holyhead Harpies.

“No idea.”

The room was small and comfy, though Phoenix could tell it had been rearranged to accommodate them both, and the walls were a soft, powder pink. A window, between the two beds, overlooked the orchard below and foot trail that led up the hill to a small paddock, where the Weasleys would often practice Quidditch out of view of the neighboring Muggle town.

“If you want help unpacking—”

“Not really much to unpack,” Phoenix sighed, flipping open her trunk. “Apart from my clothes, the rest of it is just textbooks.”

Ginny took a seat on the side edge of her bed and the Gryffindor found herself doing the same. There were a few moments of silence, in which both girls seemed to be searching the other—for what, neither could say—until Ginny finally spoke, apparently satisfied with what she found.

“Is your name really Phoenix?”

“No. It’s Asteria Nyx.”

“Oh. That’s a bit sad, no offense.”

Phoenix laughed—she couldn’t help it. She had never gotten that question before and certainly hadn’t expected that response; everyone who’d commented on her nickname so far had always said it with an air of derision, as if it were some unprofessional epithet scratched across an official Ministry document instead of an endearing moniker from a loved one. But Ginny didn’t seem to be mocking her. On the contrary, her face and shoulders had both fallen slightly, so that she looked genuinely disappointed.

“My real name’s Ginevra,” she continued, slumping back onto her bed. “I don’t really like it too much. I mean, I don’t _hate_ it—there are a lot worse names out there.”

“Like Dedalus Diggle?”

They both broke into a wide grin.

“ _Nothing_ is worse than Arsenius Jigger, though,” Ginny countered. “The bloke who wrote our first-year Potions book.”

“Our Defense teacher last year—” Phoenix said, a competitive glint in her eye, “his name was Quirinius Quirrell.”

Ginny’s eyes widened and she let out a single, loud _Ha_.

“Imagine going to Hogwarts and introducing yourself as _Quirinius_? I can’t even say ‘Asteria’ without rolling my eyes.”

               

Phoenix figured out very quickly that she liked Ginny. The two got along easily, talking about everything from Quidditch (they shared a favorite team, the Holyhead Harpies) to the twins’ constant pranks, to the Sorting Ceremony. It was almost six o’clock when Mrs. Weasley finally knocked on the door.

“Dinner will be in a few minutes,” she said sweetly, keeping a hand on the doorknob. “Oh, and Phoenix, dear, I was able to get your wand. It took a little bit of convincing, but you parents decided that it would be best for you to have it with you, to make sure you remember it in September.”

Her face twisted into a wide grin—Phoenix wasn’t sure whether or not she’d actually winked—she pulled a dark red-brown wand from her pocket and held it out. Phoenix jumped from her spot to retrieve it.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Weasley!”

Phoenix felt very nearly like crying. The effect was immediate: with her wand restored to her, she felt as if some hole—some depression in her very being—had been filled and leveled. There was a certain energy that emanated from the rowan wood, too, as if it had missed her, and it dispensed the same silvery mist as the first time she’d held it. It left a rosy scent as it dissipated.

"I’m not going to get a letter about that, am I?” she asked Mrs. Weasley, who was staring at where the silvery cloud had just been with wide eyes.

“Oh, no, I doubt that,” she said. The squat witch looked unsure of what she was supposed to do; on one hand, she seemed elated and impressed, on the other, anxious. She used a voice that Phoenix was very much aware was reserved for talking to young children. “It wasn’t enough for the Trace to detect, I don’t think. I’ll see you two at supper.”

And with that, she went back down the stairs.

“Does that happen often?” Ginny asked, making her way to the end of the bed, where Phoenix now stood. “The accidental stuff, I mean.”

“No, not really. I haven’t done any since last summer.”

“That’s weird,” the younger girl shrugged her shoulders and led Phoenix to the landing, then closed the door behind them. “Your wand must really like you, then.”

 

Dinner was strangely comfortable, despite there being too many people to fit at the table. Phoenix kept bumping elbows with Ginny and Ron, who were on either side of her, and nearly tipped over their drinks every time she attempted to pass some plate or other. It was chaos, but in the best way. They all discussed work, school, their plans for the summer, and friends…it was a more familiar environment than Phoenix knew could be made of a home. Only Hogwarts had ever felt so secure.

Once the meal was over, Ron and the twins cornered her on the first-floor landing.

“Tomorrow night, yeah?” asked Fred.

“Don’t go telling Mum and Dad,” George continued. “We’re going as long as no one’s up to see us leave.”

“Are you coming with us?” Ron piped up hopefully.

Phoenix glared.

“I told you to let your parents take care of this,” she sighed, cracking the door to Ginny’s room, “I won’t say anything to them, but I’m not tagging along, either.”

She shut the door behind her, grabbed a quill and ink from her trunk, and began to write:

_Harry_

_You haven’t responded all summer and we’re worried about you. I’ve tried to talk Ron out of doing anything stupid, but he’s adamant on getting to you. If you get this, know that he and the twins will be at 4 Privet Drive tomorrow night._

_Best wishes,_

_Nyx_

“What was that about?” Ginny asked as Hemera soared out of sight. “Are they going to get him?”

Phoenix simply stared, deciding what she should disclose.

“Oh, come on,” Ginny huffed. “They’re my brothers, I know them. Of _course_ they’re going to try to rescue Harry. I’m just surprised Mum and Dad haven’t caught on by now.”

Phoenix flopped onto her bed and laughed.

"Well, of course,” she said, “there’s always that little bit of hope that they’re actually going to behave themselves for once.”

Ginny seemed to realize that trying to squeeze any information out of the Gryffindor was useless; she was much too content, sinking into the mattress as if she hadn’t slept in weeks, and had her wand tucked just out of view beneath her pillow. Every now and again, she’d glance at the spot where it was hidden.

“Good night, Ginny,” she yawned as the younger witch finished changing into her night clothes. “Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet  dreams.”

 

*              A             *              S              *              B             *

 

A strange sort of tension followed Phoenix the next day. There was very little for her to do once her chores were finished (Mrs. Weasley had set her and Ginny to clean the dishes after breakfast), which left them free to do as they pleased until dinnertime. It would have been pleasant, Phoenix thought, if Ron did not constantly come into the girls’ bedroom, looking to plot and discuss some ridiculous scheme to rescue Harry from the Dursley’s.

“For the last time, Ronald,” Phoenix scoffed, tossing _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_ onto the bed, “I’m not going with you to Little Whinging. You’re going to get in trouble.”

“Fred and George have it all figured out,” he argued back. His cheeks were almost as red as his hair and he looked up and down the landing to make sure Ginny was not on her way back from the bathroom. “We’ll take Dad’s flying car and—”

“You’re going to get _your dad_ in trouble now?” Phoenix nearly shouted. “You realize that he could be fired, don’t you? Driving a flying car in a Muggle village is utterly idio—”

Ron closed the door quickly, but was careful not to let it slam shut.

“ _Will you keep it down?_ ” he hissed. “We’re not going to get him in trouble, I promise.”

“No,” Phoenix said, glancing at the spot her wand was hidden. “Promise me you won’t take the car _at all_.”

He seemed to think about it for a moment—his eyes darted from side to side, then finally rested on the broomstick in the corner, as if he was now considering flying by broom all the way to Privet Drive. His ears were tinted crimson. Just as he opened his mouth to give a weak rebuttal, there was a knock on the door.

“Excuse me,” Ginny snipped, “could I enter my own bedroom now, please?”

Ron lowered his voice.

“Fine,” he said. “I won’t take the car.”


	3. The Burrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been almost two months since I've updated and I am so, so sorry! I have had a rough time with school lately, but I've been steadily adding to this chapter :) Please, leave a comment. If you don't know what to say, just saying 'hi' is okay. I'll try to reply to all of you and as quickly as possible. 
> 
> Also, I'm going to post some questions in the End Notes, because someone brought to my attention that they want to write comments on stories they read but they never know what to say. So...I'm going to leave you a few questions, kinda like ice-breakers, if anyone wants to answer them. :)

The Burrow was as unordinary as a house could be. Not only was it several stories high and crooked beyond belief―so much so that Phoenix knew, without being told, that the entire structure was only kept standing with a complicated series of spells―but there was also constant reminders of magic wherever Phoenix turned. Garden gnomes popped in and out of holes in the ground; chickens wandered across the yard, clucking and following anyone they thought might be carrying some feed; and Mrs. Weasley usually had some sort of household charm working, whether to clean the dishes, knit a Weasley sweater in preparation for Christmas, or peel the potatoes for their next meal. 

Compared to the Skimple apartment, which only housed two fully-grown wizards, it was a magical oasis, so close to the Muggle world and yet somehow seeming so far away. Despite not being able to use magic outside of school, Phoenix felt freed.

But her favorite thing about the house, by far, was the grandfather clock that sat in the corner of the living room. At first, she had only noticed the one that hung in the kitchen: it was comparatively small and only had one hand. Instead of numbers, things like  _ Time to make tea _ and  _ You’re late _ were written around the inner edge. When Phoenix took her seat for her first meal at the Burrow, it had said  _ Time to feed the chickens, _ which she thought odd until a sudden clucking frenzy erupted outside and one of the twins ran past the window with a handful of some yellowish feed. 

The clock in the living room, however, was far grander. There were golden nine hands, each engraved with the name of a member of the Weasley family, that pointed to different places (which, again, were written around the edge in lieu of numbers) like  _ Home _ ,  _ Work _ , and  _ School _ . Phoenix noticed that there was even a spot designated for  _ Mortal Peril _ , and immediately understood that it had been in use, at least in part, more than a decade ago when Voldemort was still in power. She figured that Mrs. Weasley currently used it mostly to keep track of what family was still living at home and to make sure that none of them were in any serious danger. 

 

It was just past midnight. Phoenix did her best to slip quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen, checking over her shoulder with every other step. It was no great feat, since Ginny’s room was on the first floor landing; the only rooms on the second floor belonged to Percy, Fred, and George, and Phoenix doubted that anyone above them would be able to hear her all the way at the bottom. She glanced at the clock while passing through the living room and found a seat where she could look out onto the back garden. She placed her wand on the table in front of her.

Ron and the twins had borrowed their father’s flying car―Phoenix knew this. She had been the one to teach Ron how to manipulate promises and confessions with technicalities.  _ Half-truths _ , someone had called them once, but she couldn’t remember who. 

Phoenix had gotten rid of her nightmares long ago, it seemed; the month since Lord Voldemort’s defeat had been so dull— _ Not his defeat, _ she reminded herself,  _ his disappearance. Voldemort was too strong to be overpowered by a first year, and too cunning to have no alternative plan _ —but she could not deny that there were nights when her thoughts kept her awake and restless. They, too, were dull and slow. There was no flash of green light, no cackle, no sad smile, all of which she’d become wont to seeing in her dreams. Her mind was now preoccupied with smaller, insignificant things, like the patterns of light that danced across the ceiling at night, or the theory of some mundane, household charm in  _ The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 3) _ that she would not need to know for another year. 

While none of this was particularly interesting, it seemed to haunt her nonetheless, as if her subconscious was sending her whatever information it could to distract from the bigger, darker picture.

“Everything alright, dear?” 

Phoenix spun around. Her heart was beating too hard against her rib cage―so loudly she couldn’t hear a single thing outside her own head―and she pushed herself up and out of the chair as if she were prepared for an attack. Carrying a basket of fresh laundry, still in her day clothes, stood Mrs. Weasley. 

Phoenix didn’t realize she’d been holding her wand until her breathing steadied and she loosened her grip. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know―didn’t know,” she stuttered, falling back into her seat limply. “I’m alright, I’m just―”

Mrs. Weasley put down the basket and made her way to the sink. Phoenix didn’t follow the matriarch with her eyes, but she could hear the gentle  _ clink _ of a glass knocking against its neighbor as it was plucked from the high cupboard, and the quick gush of water from the faucet. 

“Thank you,” she muttered as Mrs. Weasley put the glass down beside her wand. 

“When Ron came home this summer, he had so many nightmares,” the squat witch explained. Her voice was calm and soothing, though no in the pitiable, condescending way that Phoenix had come to expect from parents and teachers. In the short time Phoenix had known Mrs. Weasley, she had already proven herself to be a contradiction: strength delivered in soft tones. She took a seat at a comfortable distance―not close enough to be controlling, but not far enough to seem unconcerned―and wrung her hands on the table. “I wondered how you were faring, but he always told me that you seemed fine in your letters.”

“It’s been―er― _ strange _ since I got home, but there hasn’t been much  _ wrong _ , I don’t think,” she murmured. “I mean, Marinia moved out, which made Mum have a fit, and there’s all of this tension in the apartment...And she had taken my wand, so I always felt like―”

Phoenix stopped. She didn’t know how to say it without worrying Mrs. Weasley, and that was definitely something she did not want to do. But the woman leaned forward and touched the girl’s arm. 

“You felt defenseless.” 

Phoenix sighed, looking everywhere but at the older witch. 

“All last year, that’s all I wanted to do:  _ defend _ . For the first time in my life I had friends,  _ real  _ friends―oh, besides Marinia and Jasper, of course,” she amended quickly. “All I wanted to do was protect them, and that was  _ before _ anything dangerous happened, when we thought that Snape and sniggering Slytherins were the worst of it…

“And then, suddenly, there was a very real problem.”

“You thought you had to be the one to fix it.” It was less a question than a suggestion, Phoenix understood. “Dumbledore told me how you’d tried to piece it all together. But then it grew and grew.”

“The whole world was at stake, not just my friends,” she murmured guiltily. “Then Ron got hurt on the chessboard, and Hermione...Hermione couldn’t come through with Harry and me, because she had to take care of Ron, and I hoped they wouldn’t get attacked by anything while I was gone. 

“The entire time,” Phoenix confessed, “all I could think about was those wild rumours of the Boy-Who-Lived, and how I had to keep him safe because he was the one we all needed to survive.”

“You’re far too young to have so much weight on your shoulders,” said Mrs. Weasley, who had refused to look away. 

“But if I’d just done  _ nothing _ ―” Phoenix stopped herself. She wanted to shout, to get angry, but she couldn’t. The house was too silent and Mrs. Weasley was too kind; everything was as it needed to be, and she couldn’t disturb it with an emotion she only  _ wanted _ to feel. “And now I can’t even force myself to think about it. My mind just goes completely blank. I tried to talk this all through with Hermione—I had this long, thoughtful letter planned out, with all of the things I wanted to say, but the words just wouldn’t  _ come _ to me. All I could think about were proposed changes in cauldron regulations I’d read in the  _ Prophet _ .”

By now, she was out of breath. Phoenix leaned forward on her elbows and rested her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook as if she were sobbing, but there was no sound, no whimper. She raked her fingers through her dark hair and looked at Mrs. Weasley for the first time, her face tinted pink.

“You are a brave and talented witch,” Mrs. Weasley said, relaxing back into her chair, “and, from what I hear from Arthur, you’re also very bright. But there are always people you can turn to, do you understand? If you try to protect everyone, dear, you’ll end up losing yourself in the process.”

Phoenix wasn’t quite sure she knew what to say, so she stayed quiet. By now, it was almost one o’clock, but there was no way to tell the time―not without her wristwatch, which she’d left in her trunk in Ginny’s room. She wondered whether she’d be able to sneak into the living room to peak at Ron and the twins’ hands on the grandfather clock without Mrs. Weasley noticing. After a few moments of silence, however, it was clear that the older witch wasn’t about to leave, not with Phoenix still so obviously upset.

“Phoenix is a rather interesting nickname,” she said, staring out the window toward the garden, which was now cast in a pale blue light. “I was wondering who gave it to you?”

“My sister. I always hated the name Asteria, so she started calling me by my middle name, and that sort of turned into ‘Phoenix,’ I guess. I don’t really remember why.”

Mrs. Weasley chuckled softly and started to sort through the clothes in the basket. Phoenix took this as a good sign: she seemed relaxed enough and the conversation had taken a comfortable turn. If Phoenix was able to convince her that she was tired enough to sleep, then she might be able to check on the clock, so long as Mrs. Weasley felt she was good enough to trek back to bed alone. 

“May I ask why you hate the name Asteria?” she asked, hanging a folded jumper on the edge of the basket. “I think it’s rather lovely.”

“It might be,” Phoenix confessed. She looked down into her glass, inspecting it absentmindedly while scrounging for some sort of answer that didn’t sound so childish as what she was about to say. “Mum was always so proud about naming me Asteria. She’d never let anyone call me anything else. I really just grew to resent her attitude, more than anything, I think.”

Mrs. Weasley paused. She turned to Phoenix; her eyebrows were crooked so dramatically they were practically touching, her lips were slightly puckered, and there was distance in her eyes. In a fraction of a moment, the confusion that riddled her face was gone, but that did not mean it had gone unnoticed. 

“Your mother said she named you?”

“Yes.” 

It wasn’t such an odd thing, Phoenix thought, for someone’s mother to name them. She couldn’t understand why Mrs. Weasley was so surprised.

“Your mother, Aurelia Robert?” Mrs. Weasley blinked slowly, as if trying to hide disbelief but unable to completely manage a natural facade. 

“Is that her maiden name?” Phoenix asked sincerely. “If so, then...yeah. Is something wrong?”

“No, dear. It’s very late,” Mrs. Weasley said, throwing some of the folded clothes back on top of the pile, “and you should try to get some sleep.” 

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

Phoenix knew not to be on the ground floor when Ron, Harry, and the twins arrived the next morning. She laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, like she’d done so often at the Skimple apartment, and tried to think of anything but the immense guilt she suddenly felt for keeping their plan secret from Mrs. Weasley, who had been so kind and protective of her since she arrived. 

Ginny began to stir in her bed. 

“ _ Don’t _ get up,” Phoenix warned. She shot the younger girl a warning stare and sank back halfway under the covers. “I think your brothers did something stupid last night and your mother will probably figure it out any time now.”

“What did they  _ do _ ?” Ginny laughed. She stretched and folded her arms behind her head.

Phoenix turned onto her side.

“I think they went to get Harry.”

“Obviously,” the younger girl scoffed. “I was asking how.”

“Oh…” She shouldn’t have been surprised, she realized, looking out over the orchard. “Well, I think they took your dad’s car.”

“Sounds like them,” Ginny sighed, a little amusement in her intonation. “I wonder if Mum’ll let us play Quidditch today. I’d love to see you on a broomstick,  _ nerd _ .”

There was a glint of mischief in the younger girl’s eyes, which Phoenix thought resembled the twins’ whenever they were challenging someone to tag along in one of their insane, brilliant plans. She pulled her wand from underneath her pillow and placed it on the nightstand. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Phoenix grinned, “and a challenge.”

“Good.” 

 

Mrs. Weasley’s voice pierced through the wooden door.

_ “Beds empty! No note! Car gone—could have crashed—out of my mind with worry—did you care? _ ” 

Ginny, who had been staring blankly at her poster of Gwenog Jones for the better part of half an hour, suddenly shot up in bed and faced Phoenix, who was sitting with her legs crossed and a copy of  _ The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts _ open on her lap. There was a moment of brief panic—in which both girl’s faces hardened, their eyes wide and cheeks blanched—but it quickly dissolved and the two fell to a fit of stifled giggles as Mrs. Weasley continued her tirade.

“ _ You wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy—”  _ A brief pause, and then, “YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY’S BOOK!” 

By this time, Phoenix had pressed herself into the mattress, trying to keep her laughter as quiet as possible; her face was so deep in her pillow that she couldn’t breathe and she had to surface, only to start hiccoughing madly, her face scarlet. Tears were running down her cheeks. From what she could see, Ginny was not much better off. Mrs. Weasley seemed to go on—her screaming only dissipated once her voice began to come out more like croaks than words. 

“Who do you want to bet dissed Percy?” she asked once the hiccoughs had mostly subsided. 

“Fred, definitely,” Ginny said, throwing a light pink nightdress over the undergarments she’d worn as pajamas that night. “What do you think?”

“For the sake of argument,” Phoenix muttered, pulling her Weasley sweater over her head, “I’m going to say it was George. Are we going down to breakfast now, or—”

“No,” Ginny interjected, rolling her eyes. “I’m getting dressed so that I can get back into bed.”

Phoenix followed her down the stairs, around the final bend of the living room, and into the kitchen. From the door, Phoenix could see the Fred, George, and Ron sitting at the table. Mrs. Weasley was standing at the corner, slathering butter onto an almost-too-thick slice of bread. She smiled up at the girls and waved them to come in, but Ginny stopped dead in her tracks.

“Harry!” Phoenix shouted, running across the kitchen to meet him. She hugged him around the shoulders and he reached up, grasping at whatever part of her he could get while seated. “Oh, I’ve been so worried about you! How did you get here?”

One of the twins coughed. Ron froze, shifting his gaze awkwardly from Phoenix to Harry to each of the twins, then finally out of the corner of his eye, to Ginny, who remained just inside the doorway. Harry tensed in her embrace.

“Oh—er—I guess they didn’t tell you?” Harry played along. 

“These three,” Mrs. Weasley added venomously, “drove their father’s flying car last night all the way to Little Whinging.”

Phoenix could have feigned surprise, or scolded the boys for misuse of magic—Ron had broken the spirit of his promise with her, even if the technicalities were in his favor, and she had told them more than once that what they were doing was wrong—but she could neither resolve her own guilt for not warning Mrs. Weasley about their plan, nor shake the feeling that what they had done was right, at least in part. Whether or not they had executed the  _ smartest  _ rescue mission, it had been done with good intentions.

“At least everyone is safe,” she said instead, taking a seat beside Harry. “Ginny, are you gonna come and eat?”

The redhead took a bracing breath, then seemed to shake out of whatever childish, star-struck crush had taken hold of her.

“And to think,” Mrs. Weasley rambled on, heaping sausages and eggs onto the girls’ plates, “that these boys were probably sneaking out of the house at the same time we were in here talking, Phoenix.”

The young witch blanched; if anyone else had stated that coincidence so frankly, she would have thought they were accusing her, but Mrs. Weasley didn’t seem to have come to any perverse conclusions. Instead, she peered up at Phoenix innocently—still a bit perturbed, of course, but the girl knew  _ that _ was aimed more toward her sons that herself—as she placed the food back onto the table and waved her wand at the sponge and towel in the sink, which suddenly sprung to life, washing the many dirty pots and pans underneath the running faucet and drying them on the counter. 

The rest of breakfast was eaten in silence. The boys seemed anxious, mostly due to the many glares and sighs from their mother, and Ginny, to Phoenix’s left, couldn’t seem to decide whether or not she wanted to actually look at Harry; her eyes would linger on him for a moment or two, then widen as if she hadn’t realized she’d been staring, and fall back onto her plate. There they’d stay for all of a minute, and the cycle would begin again.

When Phoenix had finally cleaned her plate, all of the others had long finished. They sat there quietly, not daring to speak or move, until Phoenix put her fork and knife down and hid a weak yawn behind her fist. 

“That was so good,” she said. “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.”

“No problem, dear.”

“Mum,” Ginny piped up. Her voice was higher and quieter than Phoenix had ever heard it. “Can we go out and play Quidditch? 

“Me and Nyx, I mean,” she amended when Mrs. Weasley opened her mouth to object. “We’ll stay  _ really _ low.”

Phoenix vaguely remembered Ron telling her that Ginny had never been allowed on a broom before, but there was something... _ strange _ in her voice. Phoenix couldn’t quite place it.

“I just want to kick off a few times before Flying lessons start.” She gave a slight pout. “I don’t want to be the only one who can’t get off the ground.” 

“Of course, dear. Just be careful,” the matriarch smiled. She caught the twins moving towards the living room and quickly snapped, “And  _ where _ do you think  _ you’re _ going?” 

“I’m exhausted,” Fred said casually, trying to shake off his mother’s anger. 

“Me, too,” George yawned.

“We were going to—”

“ _ You’re _ going to de-gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely out of hand again. And you,” she added, pointing at Ron, who’d slumped back, defeated, into his chair. 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

In the back garden was a small, stone outhouse the Weasleys had converted into a broom shed. There was only just enough room inside for Ginny and Phoenix both, so the latter stood outside and waited while the redhead grabbed out two broomsticks. 

“This is mine,” Ginny said, holding a Cleansweep Five close to her torso. “You can borrow Fred’s. Just be careful; if you go too high, they start to vibrate. Also, Fred’s doesn’t do too well on sharp turns.”

Ginny slung the broom over her shoulders and they started walking toward the orchard.

“Whose is it _ really _ ?” Phoenix asked. “There’s no way your Mum bought you your own.”

Ginny smirked and grabbed an apple off the ground. 

“It’s George’s,” she said, turning the apple in her hand. “The twins both have the same broom—the best model in the shed, Cleansweep Fives—but I like this one better.”

“Why?”

“Who knows?” 

Phoenix threw one leg over her broomstick and kicked gently off the ground. The broom was a bit eager, it seemed—it rose ten feet without her even trying, and Phoenix had to lean forward on the handle just to keep it from going any higher. She tried her best to get the Cleansweep to turn and took a few wide laps around the orchard until she could change directions on a Galleon. 

Ginny observed silently for a few minutes, then threw the apple into the center of the orchard. Phoenix did her best to catch it, but the Cleansweep just wasn’t fast enough; it dropped to the ground, just barely out of reach. 

“I’m impressed,” the redhead said, joining her in the air and grabbing a second, larger ‘Quaffle’ from one of the higher branches. 

“Didn’t expect me to make it?” Phoenix laughed.

“Not at all.”

She threw the Quaffle near the edge of the orchard and watched as Phoenix dove, once again, before it fell into the grass with a gross, half-muffled squishing sound. Phoenix winced automatically. 

They continued at this game for nearly an hour, never flying above the trees, where they were sure to be seen by the Muggles in the nearby town of Ottery St. Catchpole. At first, Phoenix would just try to catch whatever Ginny threw—she eventually  _ was _ able to figure out how to get Fred’s broomstick to dive properly without bucking her clean off—but after some time, the girls changed positions. Ginny was a much fairer flyer than Phoenix had expected. She handled the Cleansweep like it was Harry’s Nimbus 2000, taking sharp turns easily and accelerating beyond what Phoenix thought was possible for the outdated model she had in her grip.

Overall, they were having fun, but, once or twice, Mrs. Weasley looked out of the downstairs window to make sure that neither witch was doing anything dangerous—she warned them once to stay safe when Ginny’s feet were only a few feet off of the ground. This dulled their interest in flying severely. What was the point of being on a broom if they couldn’t be in the  _ air _ ? 

“Come on,” Ginny said, jogging toward the back door from the shed. “I think Dad’s home.” 

“How do you know?” 

The redhead took a moment to breathe, clutching at the door handle. Mrs. Weasley’s voice, sturdy and irate, echoed through the ground level; with such volume and strenght, Phoenix was impressed that the door wasn’t trembling against its hinges. 

“Poor guy never saw it coming.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I've been having so much fun writing Ginny in more depth, even if she isn't as prominent yet as I'd like her to be. Anyway, as promised above, I have some questions for you: 
> 
> 1) What do you guys think so far?   
> This doesn't just have to be about Chamber of Secrets, it can be in general in the series. If there's a character you don't like, or if I'm hammering a certain subject, I'd love your feedback.
> 
> 2) What do you make of Phoenix's relationship with Mrs. Weasley?   
> So far, Mrs. Weasley has acted sort of like a second mother to Phoenix: she stood up for her when Mrs. Skimple took away her wand and she involved herself in the aftermath of Voldemort's defeat at the end of term. What are your thoughts?
> 
> 3) Who's your favorite character?   
> Mine's McGonagall. (Oh, you thought it'd be Phoenix? Ha. Nope. McGonagall is the best character ever written in the history of fiction and you can't convince me otherwise.) They don't have to be from books one and two. You can include people that are introduced later in the original series. If it's an OC, I'd love to hear why.
> 
> 4) I'm a Slytherin. What House are you in?   
> If you don't know you're House, you can leave a little paragraph about you and I'll try to tell you what I think...or leave a paragraph anyway and let's see if I guess correctly. I'm easy lmao 
> 
> 5) Is there anything you'd like me to add?  
> If there are any unanswered questions from Sorcerer's Stone, or if you just want to see something improved/added, then feel free to tell me! I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> Kanene ♥
> 
>  
> 
> As always, quotes from the original: 
> 
> "Time to make tea," "You're late," and "Time to feed the chickens," page 34.  
> “Beds empty! No note! Car gone—could have crashed—out of my mind with worry—did you care?” and “You wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy...YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY’S BOOK!” page 33.


	4. At Flourish and Blotts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I made a few small errors in the first few chapters of this books: 1) they go to Diagon Alley the following week, not the Wednesday that Harry arrives at the Burrow, and 2) the Weasleys play Quidditch at the paddock on a hill, not in their orchard (though this is where Ginny and Phoenix still fly at the end of chapter 3, because Molly wants to keep an eye on them). I had been hurrying to write between classes and didn’t fact check these properly, so I apologize. I have gone back to fix the wording to make chapters one through three more accurate to the originals.
> 
> Please forgive how long this took to update! I had a request for a fanfiction that sort of spiraled out of control. What was meant to be a one-shot has become a 22,000+ word multi-chapter fic, and it's only about half way done...That being said, I still don't have a proofreader, so please forgive any mistakes: the time it took me to update obviously weren't spent on checking my own writing lol 
> 
> Love, as always, and please leave a kudos or comment!

If there was one thing that Phoenix and Harry had in common it was—no, never mind. There were definitely two things they had in common, both on par: the first was their taste for heroic flare, the second was their distaste for being left out of the loop. Phoenix was impatient when it came to waiting for news, so, the second the boys had a moment to spare away from their mother, she followed them up to Ron’s room and took a seat beneath the window.

The bedroom was on the fifth floor, just below the attic. Plastered over every inch of his walls were posters of Quidditch players in orange and black robes; his bedspread was the same bright, ugly color with two large black C’s and a cannon ball emblazoned in the center. Phoenix felt as if she’d just walked into a pumpkin that had been scooped out for carving.

“Why’d you bring parchment?” Ron asked, taking a seat on his bed. A deck of Self-Shuffling playing cards was sifting on the pillow behind him.

“Hermione will want to know how everything went,” Phoenix explained, her tone a bit exasperated, “so I want to write it all down while you’re here and ask your opinions on the letter before it’s sent.”

Both he and Harry gave her a strange look, but she ignored them, dipping her quill in a small, near-empty inkwell.

“All right,” Phoenix said. “Let’s begin.”

Harry did most of the talking, describing the abhorrent treatment he received at Privet Drive and his first run-in with a house elf, but Ron began interjecting once the story became more familiar—it was obvious he felt some sort of pride at having been the one to rescue Harry, and he wasn’t going to let his portion of the story be told by anyone else. Once they were done, Phoenix scribbled a few finishing touches on the letter and read it aloud:

 

_“Hermione,_

 

 _“You asked for any news on Harry, and so I think you’ll be happy to know that he’s here with us at the Burrow. He arrived early this morning. You might also be happy to know that I followed your advice and didn’t do anything stupid; however, the same could_ _not_ _be said about Ron.”_

 

“Hey!” he whined, but she continued to read as if nothing had been said.

 

_“He and the twins flew a flying car from St. Ottery Catchpole all the way to Privet Drive in the middle of the night, over a number of Muggle neighborhoods._

 

_“I don’t know if you’ve heard that Harry received a letter from the Ministry last week for misuse of magic? Apparently, his aunt and uncle were unaware of underage restrictions until it arrived, and Harry lost all leverage he had against them; they locked him in his room and put bars across the window. I should also mention that the instance of ‘misuse of magic’ wasn’t performed by Harry at all, but by a house elf (a small, troll-like creature that serves a wizard family, despite having magic of its own) who had been hoarding all of our letters to Harry this summer. He didn’t want Harry returning to Hogwarts this September, but Ron and the twins figure that it was all a prank: only rich families own house elves, so they suspect that someone like Malfoy sent him to spout some fake rumour about “danger at Hogwarts” as a joke._

 

_“Honestly, I agree. We can discuss it further at Diagon Alley, but everything the house elf said was rather vague._

 

_“Anyway, we now know why Harry hadn’t been responding and Ron and the twins were able to get Harry and all of his school things into the car before his uncle could stop him, thank goodness. We even have his Nimbus 2000 safely in the broomshed. Cross your fingers, we don’t have another run-in with a house elf before the start of term._

 

_“Love,_

_“Nyx”_

 

Harry thought for a moment, seemingly pleased with the letter, then muttered, “Could you take out the bit about bars across my window? I know it’s...it’s true, but I don’t…” his voice trailed off.

“Yeah, of course.” Phoenix scratched it out and began to copy the letter onto a clean piece of parchment. “I wish we had magic right now. Writing is so much more difficult when you have to do it by hand.”

“Wait a second,” Ron said. He’d found a comfortable position laying down while Phoenix was reading the letter, but he sat up now and pushed the Self-Shuffling cards onto the mattress beside him. “You’ve been writing your assignments with _magic_ ? And you never told _us_?”

Phoenix sighed and placed the parchment and quill beside her.

“First of all, there is no rule against using magic to write essays and homework, we’re just not allowed to use it on _exams_ ,” she explained, counting on her fingers. “Secondly, I told you at the beginning of last term that I knew a spell to make my own Quick-Quotes Quill, but you weren’t very much interested. Thirdly, I don’t use it all the time, just when I’m too tired to write, or in a hurry. I even write all of my personal letters to home by hand, and those take _forever_ to pen. And lastly, how did you _think_ I finished all of my assignments so quickly?”

Ron looked offended, but he obviously had no answer for that...he simply pouted, began picking random cards out of the deck and throwing them back onto the sheets, and muttered something inaudible out of the corner of his mouth.

“It isn’t like I don’t know what I’m talking about. I just don’t see the point in spending an hour handwriting something that I could just _think_ onto the paper. It’s not that big of a deal.”

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

The week passed rather wonderfully. Phoenix spent most of her time with Ginny, talking about the upcoming school year, what House she wanted to be Sorted into (Gryffindor, of course), and planning ways to sneak out to the paddock to play Quidditch without Molly’s notice. While they weren’t busy with chores, Phoenix also was able to do some catching up with Ron and Harry—granted, there wasn’t much to talk about; they’d only been separated a month, and most of what had taken place had been discussed immediately, in the heat of all the drama to do with Harry’s rescue and the out-of-place house elf.

The boys also seemed to have an aversion to hanging around Ginny, who blushed whenever Harry entered the room. Though she was getting better at hiding her awkwardness around him, there was still that faint impression of tension whenever they were within sight of one another, and Harry often did his best to avoid meeting her. Phoenix was left as a sort of mediator—again—as if it hadn’t been bad enough when they’d done the same exact thing to Hermione the year before.

“Hermione wants to meet this upcoming Wednesday in Diagon Alley,” Phoenix reminded them at breakfast about a week after Harry’s arrival. She took her seat between Harry and Ginny; across from them, Ron was already digging into his breakfast porridge.

“Of course, dear,” Molly said, piling more sausage and toast onto her plate. “Oh, that reminds me, your Hogwarts lists came just this morning. All of you,” she added just as the twins came in.

“What?” Fred asked

George yawned behind a loose fist.

“Letters from school.”

Phoenix remembered Marinia telling her that the supplies list often changed between years; if a new professor was brought in to teach a class, they might have their own preferences, or the information in one of their texts had proved out of date and was replaced with a newer, more accurate source. In her seven years at Hogwarts, however, there had always been a few books that were _expected_ : a grade of _The Standard Book of Spells_ for each term (though, admittedly, that’d been because she had continued with Charms through N.E.W.T. level), _The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts_ , and _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_. Other supplies would be rearranged every so often, but never had Phoenix heard of such a drastic change as the one she found when she opened up her letter...

 

SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE:

_The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_

By Miranda Goshawk

 _Break with a Banshee_ by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Gadding with Ghouls_ by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Holidays with Hags_ by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Travels with Trolls_ by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Voyages with Vampires_ by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Wanderings with Werewolves_ by Gilderoy Lockhart

 _Year with the Yeti_ by Gilderoy Lockhart

 

“Who wants to bet the new Defense teacher’s a witch?” George asked, looking dumbfounded at his list. “Look, Mum, they want us to get his entire collection.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Phoenix muttered. She sunk into her seat, wondering how she was going to convince her parents to buy her an entire set of Lockhart books when Jasper would probably need the same exact thing...it wouldn’t be cheap, especially if they required two copies, one for each child. “Alliterate titles, quick fame, his picture slathered across every book and magazine he can manage...this man’s a narcissist if ever I saw one. He’s got to be the new professor.”

It was only a joke, but Phoenix didn’t miss the slight glare from Mrs. Weasley.

“Lockhart is a brilliant man,” was all she said, before busying herself with something on the stove.

 

The following Wednesday, Phoenix awoke long before the rest of the house and began taking inventory of her things, for no reason other than she _thought_ she could remember something strangely similar happening in her dream. It was a vague reconnaissance, but it eventually did her well: her school robes were wrapped around the telescope and glass phials, which sat in the base of her cauldron; on top, she could easily spot her cloak, gloves, and pointed hat, which, for once, were folded properly; and inside of her trunk were just enough articles of clothes for several days of wear _plus_ all of her first-year textbooks, a pheasant-feather quill with a severe-looking chunk missing from the shaft, and an empty inkwell. She knew, without looking, that her wand was tucked underneath her pillow.

Something was amiss, but Phoenix could not figure out what it was...perhaps it was just a feeling left over from an anxious dream.

“Wotcher?” Ginny mumbled groggily. She peered at the Gryffindor through slitted eyes and pulled her blankets up over her shoulder. “Wuh time izzet?”

“About seven, I think. Dunno really.”

“Go sleep.” The redhead turned over to face the wall.

Phoenix did as told, but not for the command; now that she knew that all of her things were as she had them last, she felt secure enough to go back to sleep. It didn’t seem like long before Mrs. Weasley was waking all of the children, beginning with Percy the Prefect, then the twins (the girls could hear all three complain to their mother that it was _far_ too early for shopping, though it must have been nine o’clock already), and finally the boys at the very top. By the time she’d made it back down to the first floor landing, both Phoenix and Ginny were dressed and finished brushing their hair.

“You two are very lively today,” she said with a wink. “Breakfast will be ready in five. Oh, and Phoenix, dear, your parents sent an owl last night. I didn’t want to wake you. They asked to have you meet your brother at Gringotts and he’ll give you the money for your supplies.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” Phoenix said, pulling her long, dark hair into a loose braid.

The witch gave her a sad smile, but it vanished too quickly, replaced by one that looked happy and forced. Phoenix wasn’t sure what had caused such a strange display, though she’d noticed similar little moments and reactions since their conversation in the kitchen, the night the boys had snuck out in their father’s flying car.

“Five minutes,” she reminded them, then disappeared down the steps.

Breakfast was cut short—for Phoenix, at least. She had to meet Jasper early at Gringotts to collect the money her parents were going to allot her for her school things, but she’d doubted they’d do much calculations beforehand. Now that Marinia had left Hogwarts, there was no need to really break down prices like they normally would do; they probably had spent the previous night perusing Jasper’s letter, adding the costs, and then simply estimated what they _thought_ was a fair amount for Phoenix’s supplies. They hadn’t even asked to see her list!

She grabbed a handful of Floo powder from a flowerpot Mrs. Weasley took down from the kitchen mantlepiece, stepped into the fireplace, and—as the powder hit the grate beneath, replaced by warm, emerald flames—she said in a clear, bored voice, “Diagon Alley.”

Phoenix, by now, was rather wont to the sensations of travelling by the Floo network: the spinning that churned her stomach, the green smoke that encased her body, the subtle burning of her lungs as she inevitably breathed in bits of ash. The first few times she’d used it, she’d been anxious about missing the right grate and stepping out of the smoke into some stranger’s living room, but she had somewhat mastered the art of keeping her eyes peeled for little signs that she was nearing her destination. She knew exactly what the Diagon Alley fireplaces looked like, especially from the inside. When she could see the distinct clutter and frenzy of the Magical Menagerie shop, she simply put her foot out, as if catching a closing door, and stepped inside.

By the time she’d had dusted her dark red cloak of any remaining ash and glittery Floo powder, Mr. Weasley was standing beside her, doing the same.

“Your brother should be right next door,” he said, leading her out of the crowded shop. Mr. Weasley twisted and side-stepped awkwardly around the odd, disorganized rows of cages, all of which were different sizes and shapes, and tried to avoid crashing into any of the children and students, who were running between animals, poking their fingers into their habitats or trying to pet them through the metal wiring. “Didn’t think it’d be so busy this morning.”

Gringotts was a tall, white marble building that towered over all the others in Diagon Alley. Two goblins in uniform stood on either side of the bronze doors. Normally, walking in, Phoenix would be stopped by her older brother to read the silver inscription at the entrance, but, as the doors parted to allow another family to exit the hall, she could see that he was already inside.

“Jasper’s right there,” Phoenix said to Mr. Weasley. “I don’t want to keep you—”

“I’m staying until he’s come out to get you.” He started to mount the steps leading up to the bank, but thought better of it. With a quick, sheepish wave to the guards, he signaled that they were going to be staying put. “Did you have enough breakfast? I’m sure Molly wouldn’t mind having you back to eat once your brother’s given you what you need.”

“I’m fine,” she dismissed. “But thank you.”

Jasper was already making his way toward the door. He hadn’t spotted Phoenix yet, but Mr. Weasley’s balding head was visible through the crowd. Though the two had only met on several brief occassions, the older wizard was rather distinct. With his topaz sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the tail of his cloak swishing with every step, Jasper pushed through the sea of sleepy patrons and hugged Phoenix around the shoulders.

“Hullo,” she laughed, “nice to see you again.”

“I didn’t expect you to have a chaperone,” Jasper admitted. He reached out and shook Mr. Weasley’s hand. “Thank you for making sure my sister was safe.”

“No problem. Well, now that you two are all set,” Mr. Weasley said, offering them both a soft smile, “I’m going to leave you to it. Remember, we’re meeting you at Flourish and Blotts at twelve-thirty. Molly will have already been in line for some time. Find us if you need anything before then.”

“Alright.”

He turned happily onto his heels—probably thinking about the mouth-watering bacon sandwiches that waited for him at home—and made his way back to the Magical Menagerie. The moment Mr. Weasley was out of sight, Jasper pulled a small, leather purse from inside his cloak and handed it to Phoenix.

“This is what they wanted me to give you,” he lied. “That’s ten Galleons, six Sickles, and twenty-one Knuts.”

Phoenix opened her purse and checked inside; she wasn’t distrustful of him, nor did she think he’d miscount...she was peering down in the hopes that he wouldn’t notice the worry that laced her expression.

“Is something wrong?”

“I need the entire set of Lockhart books this year,” she mumbled, tucking the little pouch into her pants pocket. “They’re five Galleons each and I’m really afraid I won’t have enough.”

“You need those, too?” he stared disbelievingly down at her, mouth slightly agape, while she tried to conjure up some sort of response. When he realized she was just as confused as he was, he explained, “Mum said your school list was really light this year. She only wanted me to give you eight Galleons—”

“What do you mean Mum said—I don’t—she didn’t even…” Phoenix’s voice trailed off. She was trying her best not to make a scene, but her face was turning scarlet and she realized she was stuttering loudly on the steps to the biggest wizard bank in the U.K. With a deep breath, she lowered her voice and tried again. “Mum didn’t even read my letter. I’ve still got it at the Burrow.”

 

Where Phoenix was short and rather slim, her brother was tall and doughy; where his eyes were a beautiful light blue, hers were a dark and severe-looking brown, nearly black. Though there was nothing similar in their appearance, to everyone’s surprise, they jabbered and played and ridiculed each other like siblings as they paced up and down Diagon Alley.

“You’ve still got enough ingredients for Potions, yeah?” Jasper asked as they passed Slug and Jiggers.

“I think so,” she muttered. “There was nothing new on my list, so this should do.”

“Good.”

In the hour since Mr. Weasley had left them on the steps of Gringotts, they had visited the apothecary, Eeylops Owl Emporium, and Flourish and Blotts (knowing full well that it would be packed later that day, when the famous author Gilderoy Lockhart, who’d written more than half their school list each, was going to be signing copies of his autobiography...It was the reason Mrs. Weasley was so thrilled to do their school shopping that particular day, and why she’d be in line so long before the children were told to meet her at the bookshop). Jasper was currently doing most of the lugging. On one arm, he carried a bag with two full _used_ sets of the required Lockhart texts, and on the other, a parcel with five pounds worth of delicate potion ingredients and glass phials—he carried it awkwardly under his arm, as if it were something thinner, like a book or a broomstick.

Phoenix had two small bags of the owl treats both Igor and Hemera preferred; it sat atop a brown paper parcel with all her Potions supplies. Every now and again, she’d offer to help Jasper, who was beginning to sweat and breathe a little _too_ deeply, but he always refused.

“It’s almost eleven-thirty,” he said, nodding toward the Magical Menagerie. “Put your things in the bag and I’ll bring them to the Burrow for you.”

“That’s sweet, Jasper, but I can do it.”

“I just thought you’d rather stick around with Hermione.”

There wasn’t enough time for the message to sink in before the Muggle-born’s full weight was thrown into Phoenix’s side. Hermione crushed her in a fierce hug and, as they pulled apart, she realized that Jasper had taken the parcel and owl treats out of her hands.

“Bye, Nyx,” he laughed, moving slowly towards the pet shop.

“I’ve missed you _so_ much!” Hermione said. She wrapped her arm around Phoenix’s elbow and began guiding her back to Gringotts. “My parents really want to meet you, if that’s alright?”

“Yeah,” Phoenix muttered sheepishly, “that’s fine.”

She allowed herself to be led up the stairs to the bronze doors once again. They twisted and dodged passersby, who seemed to be looking anywhere _but_ where they were going, and finally found their way to one of the high counters where Mr. and Mrs. Granger were exchanging Muggle money for wizard currency.

Hermione’s parents looked _petrified_. It was difficult working with goblins, even for fully-grown wizards who’d grown up using this bank and interacting with such unpleasant creatures; there was nothing inherently wrong with goblins, they just seemed to be indifferent, if not severe, toward wizardkind, which was apparent in their glowers and wicked, sharp-toothed grins. Most people couldn’t stand to make eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time.

Phoenix couldn’t help but pity Hermione’s parents. They were shaking slightly as they attempted to count out their change on the counter, avoiding the teller’s gaze with all the might of mice cowering in front of a python. The two Gryffindors stood proudly behind them, their arms still intertwined.

“I’ve really missed you,” Hermione whispered into the smaller girl’s shoulder.

“Me, too.” It was barely audible. Nevertheless, Hermione’s grip on her elbow tightened.

Phoenix’s stomach was getting queasy; she blamed this on the Floo, though, to her memory, it had never affected her so long after stepping out of the grate. It had started the moment she first realized she was being hugged by Hermione and, well...she didn’t know what to make of this information. She hadn’t felt strange meeting Ron or the twins for the first time since the end of term, nor with Harry, who hadn’t responded to any of their letters all summer. Something about the annoying Muggle-born know-it-all was making her happy— _really_ happy—and she couldn’t think of a single thing to explain it…

“Oh, is this your friend?” Mrs. Granger asked, turning around for the first time to see the two girls. Beside her, Mr. Granger was sifting through his bag, counting change; he looked over his shoulder briefly to offer them a wide smile while the teller wrote something on a long roll of parchment.

What surprised Phoenix most was how _exactly_ Hermione looked like her mother. They had the same frizzy brown hair, soft brown eyes, and thin, delicate chin (though, of course, having not yet lost all her baby fat, Hermione had slightly chubbier cheeks). The buck teeth, she must have gotten from her father. His had obviously been fixed; Phoenix noticed that they didn’t quite line up in the front, though, she’d admit, it wouldn’t be so apparent if she hadn’t been looking for it.

“Come on,” Mrs. Granger continued, “let’s go outside and talk.”

“Wait, that’s them!” Hermione said. She pulled on Phoenix’s arm and waved to Mr. Weasley, who she could see was clearly distracted by the sight of two full-grown Muggles. “Mum, Dad, these are the Weasleys. And that’s Harry.”

She didn’t need to point him out when everyone around him had flaming red hair and orangey freckles. The glasses and lightning bolt scar might also have been incriminating, assuming Hermione had explained the story of the Boy-Who-Lived to her parents. He ran his hand awkwardly through his untidy hair and waved hello.

Hermione let go just long enough to hug Ron and Harry separately, then moved back to stand beside Phoenix.

“Meet you back here?”

“Course,” Phoenix mumbled. She was watching Fred and George slip something into Ron’s back pocket. “Shouldn’t take too long, right?”

“Right,” Harry agreed.

As he and the Weasleys made their way to the vaults, he whispered something to Ron and took the Dungbomb out of the latter’s jeans; the twins looked back at Phoenix with an unimpressed grimace each.

 

Phoenix and Hermione spent the next fifteen minutes or so standing in line behind the Muggle-born’s parents while they waited for Harry and Ron to return. Phoenix was utterly bored out of her mind. Mr. and Mrs. Granger continued to stutter and drop things in fear of their sharp-eyed teller and the Gryffindor quickly grew tired of listening to their jibbering...Yes, of course, she knew that experiencing certain parts of their world could be terrifying, but that didn’t mean she had to pay attention to that fear, did it? Contemplating this, she felt a little guilty, but she couldn’t get herself to focus on anything the Muggles were saying.

Hermione had her full attention. She was squeezing Phoenix’s arm, rattling on about something she’d read in a Muggle book she received the previous year for Christmas; to her own chagrin, the latter was actually absorbing some of the information on the main plot...How could she not? Hermione was so invested in what was happening in the story that she was sort of transferring that excitement and enthusiasm onto Phoenix. So, while the smaller girl was bored, she was somehow, simultaneously ecstatic: she’d waited so long to see Hermione and she couldn’t supress the stupid, content smile that had plastered itself across her face. For the first time since leaving Hogwarts, she felt truly secure.

When the Weasleys returned, they began to disperse. Fred and George met their friend, Lee Jordan, and headed inevitably toward the joke shop; Percy walked away alone, muttering something about needing a new quill; Mr. Weasley decided to make conversation with the Grangers (which seemed to upset Molly, if her glare was any indication); and Harry and Ron went straight to the counter to fetch the girls, just as they had promised. They were almost to the door when Ginny piped up behind them.

“Mum,” she pouted, “can I go with them?”

“Ginny, dear, we’re going to get you your new robes, remember?”

Mrs. Weasley took her daughter by the hand and the two groups finally parted at the bottom of the steps.

“That was close,” Ron sighed once they were out of earshot.

“What do you mean?” Phoenix argued. “Your sister’s pretty cool. You’d know that if you ever stopped treating her like an insect.”

There was a bit of venom in her voice, but she was smiling. Hermione pointed to a shop window and muttered something about them all needing parchment.

“You can have fun with her on the train, then,” Ron laughed. “Me and Harry will be figuring out what the Malfoys were selling in Borgin and Burkes.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Phoenix stopped them. They were standing just in front of Fortesque’s Ice Cream Parlour; students and their little siblings and chaperones were finding seats outside the shopfront and chattering away. Phoenix almost couldn’t hear herself over the din. “Marinia mentioned last week that the Ministry was going to start doing raids again...and it’s not as if it’s the friendliest place to visit.”

Hermione watched her curiously.

“Oh, sorry, ‘Mione. Borgin and Burkes is one of the shops on Knockturn Alley,” Phoenix explained. She checked her surroundings once more to make sure no one was listening in. “It’s no secret the entire store is filled with Dark magic.”

“They were definitely in there to sell,” Harry whispered. “Mr. Weasley thinks it’s to do with the raids, too.”

The four of them stood there, contemplating what this all meant—Phoenix could see the Muggle-born’s eyes jerk now and again as she tried to connect all of the information into a smooth hypothesis—until a group of children pushed them on their way to the shop.

“Ice creams, anyone?”

They ordered four large peanut butter and strawberry sundaes and ate them as they traipsed in and out of shops along Diagon Alley. Hermione would list off the different supplies they required for the upcoming term and Ron would trail behind a few steps, shooting longing glances down Knockturn Alley whenever they came out of a different store.

“Why were _you_ in there, Harry?” Hermione asked some time later as they exited Gambol and Japes. Behind them, the twins were discussing ideas for practical jokes with Lee Jordan.

“I—erm,” he stuttered, “had a bit of trouble with the Floo network.”

That certainly threw Phoenix into a fit of giggles. Sure, she’d been anxious about stepping out into the wrong grate her first few times using Floo powder, but she hadn’t heard of anyone she knew actually _doing_ it. Plus, this was _Harry Potter_ , the Boy-Who-Lived. He could defeat the Darkest wizard in history, but he couldn’t keep his elbows tucked in?

After a few moments, Hermione started laughing, too. She, however, had the good grace to try to hide it.

“It’s not that funny,” Harry chuckled.

They met the Weasleys at twelve-thirty at Flourish and Blotts, like they had promised. Each of them were carrying some small package or bag and, though Phoenix had already done her shopping earlier with Jasper, she figured she had an arm to spare to help Hermione…The Gryffindors wound their way through the bookshop. Phoenix had never seen the place so packed; witches and wizards, most around Mrs. Weasley’s age, stood stiffly in their spots, giving strange, protective glares whenever someone came too close to cutting them in line.

Of course, the Weasleys were easier than most to find in a crowd.

“Red hair,” Harry mumbled, pulling them through the sea of colorful cloaks.

The moment they joined the pureblood family in line, Phoenix began to keep her distance. She was tired—it wasn’t so much that she hadn’t slept, just that she hadn’t dealt with so much excitement and socialization in some weeks. She stood a step or two back from the crowd and simply watched the next events unfold in front of her.

Just because she was tired, however, did not mean she wasn’t observant. She saw everything from the short wizard in a dark, crinkled cloak that was taking pictures, to the strange sideways glances the twins gave her now and again when Hermione went off on another tangent. The boys were all waiting irritably for Lockhart to appear so they could get out of the shop and _breathe_ , but Mrs. Weasley and the Muggle-born were far too excited to meet the author; no amount of coaxing could get them out of the store without at least a glimpse. Perhaps Fred and George were hoping Phoenix could get Hermione to calm down—or, at least, keep her attention elsewhere—but she wasn’t much up to the task at the moment. She was watching everything, sure, but she wasn’t about to throw herself in the midst of it all.

A large table had been set up against the back wall, with just enough space for Lockhart to get in and out of his seat. Nearly the entire surface was covered in pictures of his face; a small plot in the center was reserved for his quills, inkwell, and space to write.

Phoenix was one of the first to notice him arrive. Unlike Hermione, she recognized those forget-me-not eyes and white-toothed smile; and unlike the boys, she was actually looking for them. In front of her, Mrs. Weasley began to fan herself with one of their Hogwarts letters.

Phoenix herself didn’t necessarily care. He was handsome, sure, and he’d dedicated _years_ to studying and defending himself against magical creatures, but the Gryffindor had the sense that something was a bit off. Reading his books felt like reading a gossip article: good for entertainment and not much else. What little substance they might have had was either cut out from the final product or surrounded by such narcissistic, dramatic dribble that she didn’t bother reading through. So, no, unlike most witches her age, Phoenix Skimple was _not_ a fan of Gilderoy Lockhart. But she watched him carefully, thinking, for some odd reason, that he was going to do something important.

The little man with the camera accidentally tread on Ron’s foot, causing the latter to give a short response...This, like any other sign of trouble—a priceless source of attention—caught Lockhart’s. He looked up. He saw Ron—then he saw Harry. Phoenix saw the recognition strike.

“It _can’t_ be Harry Potter.”

As Lockhart dove into the crowd to take Harry’s hand, the twins moved quickly around their mother and to either side of Phoenix. The photographer was clicking away. With every flash of his camera, a puff of thick, purple smoke bellowed out over the Weasley family.

“Did you mean it when you said you think Lockhart’s the new professor?” Fred whispered.

“Our bet’s a witch.”

“So I’ve heard.”

George continued. “Mum looks like she’s ready to faint.”

“Pathetic.”

They tried their best to ignore Lockhart, but he was practically within arms’ reach and the crowd behind them condensed. There was no escape room and wouldn’t be until the _celebrity_ made his way back to his desk and the excitement in the room died down.

That being said, Phoenix heard it all—his entire pitch, from his vain attempt at altruism by giving a famous rich kid a free copy of a book about himself, to the inevitable, self-engrandizing announcement:

“He and his schoolmates, in fact, will be getting the real magical me,” he said, beaming stupidly at the crowd. “Yes, ladies and gentleman, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

All four boys wheeled around to stare incredulously at Phoenix. She put her hands up, as if in defense.

“It was just a _joke!_ ” she squealed, wide-eyed. “I had no idea he was actually going to do it!”

This, too, of course, got Lockhart’s attention—he was standing no more than five feet away. As a portly wizard was handing the entire collection of Lockhart’s books into Harry’s arms, the author himself took two long strides toward Phoenix and smiled.

“Ah, so you’d already guessed it, had you?”

Mrs. Weasley and Hermione were both blushing faintly.

“The other morning at breakfast,” the former said. “She’s quite brilliant.”

She must have recalled what Phoenix said about him being a narcissist, because, just then, while his head was turned, she furrowed her brows disapprovingly at the girl.

“Ah, I see,” he smiled again; Phoenix got the impression he did this whenever he spoke, just to show off his white teeth. “And you’re a friend of Harry Potter?”

Aaaand _there’s_ the kicker. This was another publicity thing...or a social ladder thing, Phoenix couldn’t really decide which it was at the moment. On one hand, he might play nice with her on the off chance that their relationship would have a positive effect on the one he had with Harry; on the other, he might be piecing together bits of information that had been made public at the end of last term.

Guessing that he was more vain than pensive, Phoenix was willing to bet on the former.

“Asteria Skimple.”

He shook her hand and turned toward his desk. Just as he did so, there was another flash of purple smoke.

“Ah! Another one for the paper,” he beamed. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Skimple.”

It was clear that was all he wanted from their interaction, so Phoenix found Harry on the edge of the room, where he’d emptied the books into Ginny’s new (used) cauldron and was now face-to-face with Draco Malfoy.

“Well, that was loads of fun.” Phoenix rolled her eyes. “If he were any blonder or more conceited, I’d say he was a Malfoy.”  

“If you were any poorer, I’d suspect you were a Weasley,” he hissed.

The statement obviously bothered Ron more than it did Phoenix. He and Hermione had just fought their way through the crowd, both carrying their new textbooks, but he’d heard enough for his face to turn crimson.

“You’re just mad we bested your scores last year,” Phoenix said, beating Ron to it. “A poor girl and a Muggle-born. Tell me, how did you explain that one to your dad?”

By now, Mr. Weasley had taken notice—or perhaps he’d just walked over to escape Lockhart’s fans, as they all had done. Whatever the case, he, Fred, and George made their way across the shop to where Ron was dumping his books into Ginny’s cauldron. The latter looked like he was about to lunge at Draco, but stopped the moment he caught sight of his father.

“It’s too crowded in here,” he said, “let’s go outside!”

Phoenix thought that was a wonderful idea. It was far too hot and she was exhausted enough as it was _without_ the constant heat and noise from people passing by. She felt as if some fresh air would really clear her mind and, possibly, make the boys calm down a bit from their short encounter with their nemesis. But, just as they had all turned to exit, a tall, white-blonde wizard in pristine robes walked up behind his son; they wore identical sneers.

“Well, well, well—Arthur Weasley,” he hissed. His voice was slimy. Had Phoenix never heard of the Malfoy family before now, she still wouldn’t trust him.

She looked around at the group: Draco was sniggering at Mr. Weasley; Hermione, Ginny, and the twins were watching intently, their eyes going back and forth between the two adults like they were watching a tennis match; Mr. Weasley had a subtly victorious, if not a bit snide, smile that was mostly present in his eyes; and Ron and Harry both seemed to be fixated solely on Draco.

What surprised her, however, was where Mr. Malfoy chose to direct _his_ attention. It was apparent that he was trying to maintain some sort of eye contact with Mr. Weasley, who was staring back just as intensely, but Phoenix noticed his fleeting glances toward the redheaded girl and her cauldron, which was filled with at least two full sets of Lockhart’s collection. These odd looks continued until he eventually reached in and withdrew a used copy of _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_.

Everyone seemed like they were going to let that action pass.

Then Malfoy made the mistake of insulting Mr. and Mrs. Granger.

Arthur lunged at him, knocking Ginny’s cauldron out of her hands. Hermione’s parents rushed over to shepherd their little girl out of harm’s way and Mrs. Weasley, who had only noticed their brawl due to the twins’ shouting “Get him, dad!” hurried toward them, both to stifle the din and to hopefully usher her own children out of reach. Phoenix was less interested in the fight than with helping Ginny pick her things up off the floor; neither wizard would use consequential magic in such a tight public space, so the worse either really had to worry about was a black eye or broken nose.

It was the only thing to do, Phoenix mused, that would keep her out of the chaos, short of abandoning the shop. She was on her hands and knees, piling copies of _Gadding with Ghouls_ and _Year with the Yeti_ (she seriously couldn’t get over how every book title in the collection was alliterate) into the pewter basin, just a few feet away from the flying fists and hail of spell books that came raining down from the upper shelves. Her movements were sluggish and automatic until the noise settled down and she turned—less out of curiosity than involuntary instinct—in time to watch Mr. Malfoy thrust Ginny’s Transfiguration book back into her hands.

Hagrid was holding both fathers by the scruff of their cloaks.

“Here girl—take your book—it’s the best your father can give you,” Mr. Malfoy hissed, struggling against the half-giant’s grasp. Hagrid only let him go when it was apparent that, rather than starting another fight, he and Draco were prepared to leave Flourish and Blotts.

Phoenix hadn’t noticed Hagrid come into the shop, but she was more than happy to see him. She drew herself up and hugged his side.

“Nice ter see you, Nyx,” he said, patting her back with a hand the size of a trash can lid.

“ _So_ nice to see you, Hagrid.”

While Mr. and Mrs. Weasley bickered behind them, Hagrid led the children toward the Leaky Cauldron, where they would be using the Floo to return to the Burrow. On the way, the twins teased Harry mercilessly; Ron gave one last wistful glance at Knockturn Alley.

“Good thinking, by the way,” Harry said, jogging to catch up to Phoenix and avoid Fred and George’s most recent round of Floo failure jokes. “Malfoy brought up his scores this morning at Borgin and Burke’s...his father was really ashamed, I guess—”

“I know,” Phoenix laughed, “you told us.”

“No,” Harry said, “I didn’t.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys so much! I've had so much support and I love hearing from you! 
> 
> Quotes from the original:  
> “He looked up. He saw Ron—then he saw Harry,” (59-60).  
> “It can’t be Harry Potter,” (61).  
> “It’s too crowded in here, let’s go outside!” (61).  
> “Get him, dad!” (61).  
> “Here girl—take your book—it’s the best your father can give you” (63).


	5. The Whomping Willow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Hermione should have done on the train...

Phoenix found herself keeping a calendar—something she’d never had the motivation, nor the need, to do before—to count down the days until September 1st. She remembered how thrilled she’d been the previous year, on her first voyage on the Hogwarts Express, but now, somehow, she was even more excited; there was no fear of being rejected by her peers, since so many of them were already friends, and she had already proven herself efficient in all of her classes. 

The morning finally arrived. Dawn broke over the Burrow—a soft, golden light flooded the horizon, above and between the tree tops on the hill, and a brighter pink began to climb above the rest. It settled there, content until the yellow sun crested its rosy hue to mute all those around it. Against the emerald and olive green leaves, stained so by the recent navy sky, the sunrise was an extraordinary contrast—greens and blues against yellows and pink, dullness against vibrancy, darkness against light. The brilliant white stars and dusty moon, all diminished some time ago, had paled away from the sunlight, waiting to once again outshine their shadowy canvas.

This was when Phoenix awoke. The powder pink of Ginny’s room did nothing to remove the feeling of dawn, as if the two girls were trapped, swimming in a pool of rose sunlight that had been cast through the windows, even as pink and dull cerulean began to mix into lavender and eventually gave way to a softer blue. 

There came a gentle knock on the door.

“Good morning, girls,” Mrs. Weasley whispered, poking her head into the room. “The rest of us are up and getting ready.”

“Morning, Mrs. Weasley,” Phoenix yawned. 

“Mum,” Ginny moaned. By the endearing look the matriarch gave her, Phoenix assumed that this was a normal response, but she couldn’t help feeling as if the younger girl was only going to roll over the moment her mother shut the door behind her and fall back to sleep. 

“Up, up, Ginny,” she coaxed again. 

At this, the redhead sighed and sat up in bed. She fixed her mother with a groggy look—her eyes half-open and one eyebrow barely raised—and stood to grab her trunk, which sat at the end of her bed. 

“Good,” Mrs. Weasley smiled. “I’ll see you both soon for breakfast.”

Then, as if rethinking this, turned to Phoenix and continued.

“We might not all meet for breakfast,” she ammended, “but there’ll be something for you both downstairs to nibble on while you’re packing.”

“Phoenix made me do it yesterday,” Ginny groaned. Until now, she had been leaning over her trunk, pretending to examine her things with a distant gaze that swept over the items therein slowly. 

The squat witch’s smile widened. 

“Thank you, Phoenix. And I expect everyone to be in the car by—”

“Ten,” Ginny said. “Thanks, Mum.” 

Mrs. Weasley gave them a few last reminders, then left to join the noise that was building on the staircase; all of the boys were awake now, and it was apparent by the amount of groaning, yawning, scraping, stamping, and general disgruntled comments the girls could hear coming from above. Percy, on the next floor, complained any time someone bothered him, even if it was just to remind him about something relatively important, like the spare quill he’d dropped in the hallway, or to ask for his help with packing. 

Despite her claims, Ginny was not completely prepared. Her textbooks, supplies, clothes, uniform, and some other, personal things were put away at the foot of her bed, like she’d implied, but there were several things still left about the room: her wand, for one, was still in its box on a small, wooden night table she and Phoenix sometimes used as a desk, and there were trinkets—Chocolate Frog cards, gobstones, and things that looked suspiciously like Dungbombs—scattered across the windowsill and bumbling around in random drawers. After her mother left to bother her brothers, Ginny finally, and reluctantly, saw to categorizing these last few items, some to take to Hogwarts and the rest to leave at home.

Phoenix was ready, but that was only because she hadn’t needed to take barely anything out of her trunk. What few articles of clothing she’d worn while at the Burrow had been washed and folded the night before, so they were easy enough to put away, and she’d made sure that she only had one book—for leisure or class, it didn’t matter—outside of her trunk at all times; if she took one out, even only for the afternoon, the one she’d been reading previously would take its vacant place beside her uniform, which was never moved. The only thing she had kept out until this morning was her wand.

“Don’t forget that,” Ginny yawned behind a loose fist. “Your wand’s still under your pillow.”

“I know,” Phoenix said. For a moment, she was bothered by the notion that she could forget something so important, but it passed. She pulled it out of its hiding place and tucked it into the pocket of her red cloak. “I’m gonna get breakfast, if you want to come with me.” 

“Not yet, thanks.” 

 

Several hours later, and the house was still bustling. No one had bothered to get packed before now: Ron had somehow forgotten to have his laundry done, so Mrs. Weasley had to run to finish washing his clothes before the train; the twins were whirlwinds, searching the house for things they’d misplaced; and even Percy, who was usually so well organized, seemed pressed for time as he fetched items one-by-one (if only to seem as if he were more prepared, since no one saw him carrying an armful of supplies at once, but Phoenix saw him pass Ginny’s room on the stairs enough to know that he’d forgotten a good number of things).

Phoenix and Ginny put some of Mrs. Weasley’s anxieties to rest, stashing their bags into the trunk of the flying Ford Anglia nearly an hour before they were meant to leave. When everyone was finally finished, Mr. Weasley opened the doors to let them inside: it had obviously been tampered with by magic, as the seats had been extended to allow all seven students and both parents to sit more or less comfortably in what would normally be a five person car, maximum. Mr. Weasley made them promise not to tell Molly what he’d done before the boys slid into the back seat. Ginny and Phoenix, unfortunately, were made to sit between the adults in the front.

“Muggles  _ do _ know more than we give them credit for, don’t they?” Mrs. Weasley asked as her daughter slid in beside Phoenix. “I mean, you’d never know it was this roomy from the outside, would you?”

Even if she hadn’t made a promise to Arthur, Phoenix didn’t think she’d have the heart to tell Mrs. Weasley what common sense should have already done. 

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

“Phoenix!” Hermione shouted, crashing into the smaller girl with a fierce hug, as if they had been apart for longer than a mere week. “I thought you were going to miss the train!”

The Muggle-born must have been waiting for them by the barrier, because her trunks were nowhere to be seen, and she would have them with her still if she’d only  _ just  _ come through it herself.

“I’ve found an empty car  _ there _ ,” she said, pointing to the end of the train. “Come on, I’ll help you get your things…”

Percy had been the first of their party to go through the barrier; he was striding toward the front of the train, no doubt to meet his fellow Prefects. Fred and George, too, had found their friend, Lee Jordan, and gone further down the platform, but Mr. Weasley, who had followed closely behind Percy, was still waiting beneath the sign for Platform 9¾, as if waiting to be of assistance. He nodded toward the car which Hermione had just indicated and turned back toward the barrier. 

“Go on,” he said, “they should be here in a few moments.”

Despite their time constraint, the Weasleys were always careful while in the presence of Muggles—and, while it would be best for them, perhaps, to all run through the barrier between the Muggle station and Platform 9¾ at the same time, they always broke their group up into pairs to gain as little attention as possible; one or two people disappearing through a solid wall at a time was forgivable—a trick of the light, or a false shadow in one’s peripheral vision—but it would be hard to ignore (and, further, to disprove if some group of Muggles insisted on what they saw, resulting in Ministry action) a line of seven school-age children and their full-grown chaperones all running into a metal barrier and vanishing instantly. Phoenix knew that Mrs. Weasley would keep her children from doing anything that might resemble magic so long as a single Muggle was watching even a  _ little _ too closely. 

“Come on,” Hermione tugged at the smaller girl’s trolley, patting Hemera through the bars of her cage as she passed. “This way. And why are you all so late?”

“George had to go back for his Filibuster fireworks first,” Phoenix explained. “They’d set them off last night and I guess he’d forgotten they were in the living room. Then Fred remembered he’d left his broomstick.”

Hermione jumped up into the hall eagerly and threw open the car door. When she turned back around, Phoenix had already grabbed Hemera’s cage in one hand and balanced her cauldron on her hip.

“You know, you could always put it in a case, like everyone else,” she suggested, taking it from Phoenix and stashing it in the overhead compartment while the latter turned back to grab her trunk. “Then you wouldn’t have to carry it so awkwardly.”

“Would if I could. I don’t have another...”

She’d spotted Ginny, but only after the redhead had found  _ her _ —she was trailing through the thinning crowd, followed by her father, who was helping to lift her luggage onto the train. Mrs. Weasley, behind her husband, was practically sobbing about her little girl’s first year at Hogwarts. Phoenix thought that Mr. Weasley might have placed himself between them to keep Molly from making a scene in front of Ginny’s peers. The redheaded girl hugged them both from the stairs and said a quick good-bye.

“Have the boys not come through yet?” Hermione asked. “The train leaves in  _ seconds _ .”

It was as if her words were the cue; just as she spoke, the whistle sounded and the scarlet engine began to inch forward on the tracks. The movement seemed so slow that Phoenix thought if Harry and Ron were to show up right this moment, they had a good chance of making it before the train had left the platform.

It was no more than a hope. The girls stood in the hall and watched through the windows, but the Hogwarts Express gained speed, passing the platform and turning the corner out of sight without anyone coming through the barrier. 

“Do you think they’re alright?” Hermione asked. 

Ginny picked up her trunks and placed them in the corner of their car. Compared to Hermione, who was fidgeting underneath her school robes, the redhead looked absolutely calm.

“All I know is that Ron’s bound to do something stupid,” she said. 

“I don’t think Harry will do much to dissuade him.”

Ginny and Phoenix took opposite seats by the window and, with one final solemn glance back toward King’s Cross Station, Hermione shut the door and sat beside Phoenix, leaning her head against the brunette’s shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have gone back for the  _ stupid _ diary,” the redhead mumbled so low that Phoenix almost didn’t hear. Her face was tinted a subtle shade of crimson—not unlike Ron, whenever he was furiously embarrassed or upset—and her shoulders slumped forward. “They might have made it on.” 

“The twins forgot stuff, too,” Phoenix tried to reassure her. “You’re not the sole reason Harry and Ron aren’t on this train, Gin. Plus, if you really think about it, we’re the ones at a loss. They’re going to go on some grand adventure and we’re all stuck here.”

That seemed to make her smile, but she still wouldn’t look either girl in the eye. 

For nearly half-an-hour, the three sat in near silence; Ginny switched now and then from staring out the window in awe at the changing landscapes to checking her luggage for possible missing items, Hermione eagerly read one of her Lockhart ‘text’books, and Phoenix...well, she was  _ thinking _ —about the boys, about their new professor, about why Mrs. Weasley had acted so strange around her recently. Her thoughts, however, were always disturbed by some small distraction, like a student running past their door, or the soft susurrus of turning pages. It took thirty minutes for her to realize that Harry and Ron would  _ never _ have been patient enough to wait for the Weasleys to reappear on the Muggle platform, which only left them one alternative.

Phoenix took her trunk down from the compartment and found a spare piece of parchment and a quill. 

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked, looking up slowly from the line she was currently reading. 

“I’m sending Harry and Ron a letter,” Phoenix muttered, scribbling furiously on her lap. “Damn it, the ink went through...I want to know what’s happening.”

“Won’t Mr. and Mrs. Weasley send an owl to Dumbledore?” Hermione asked. “Unless you think the boys  _ weren’t _ still on the platform when they went back through…”

Ginny seemed to have caught on by now; she rolled her eyes and groaned, “Stealing the car  _ twice _ in two weeks? They’re going to get expelled at that rate.” 

But no one seemed to doubt this conclusion. Phoenix finished her letter and let Hemera out of her cage. 

“Find Harry or Ron,” she said. Not having anything with which to tie it to the owl’s leg, she rolled the parchment up as tight as she could and allowed Hemera to take it in her talons. “Think you can jump out the window?”

Wind was practically whipping against the glass as the Hogwarts Express sped on through the city, but the tawny owl cocked her head adorably to the side, as if contemplating what her owner had said, and gently nipped the Gryffindor’s thumb. Phoenix took that as a yes; she carried Hemera on her forearm and slid the window open. 

“Just be careful.”

The tawny ball of fluff shimmied and puffed out her chest—Hermione stifled her giggle behind a cough—took one tentative step onto the metal frame to get a feel of the wind, and jumped. Her reddish wings extended just as she was being pulled back and out of sight.

The boys’ reply came nearly fifteen minutes later, and it was obvious they’d had a difficult time finding something with which to write: the message was scribbled onto the back of her letter and Harry’s loose, clumsy handwriting, which was normally pocked with ink blots and inconsistent lines, became thinner and thinner as he wrote; chunks of entire characters were missing by the end. Phoenix surmised that they’d put their school things in the trunk before taking off, rather than the back seat where they could reach it.

_ It wasn’t our fault! The barrier closed and we couldn’t get through. Plus, Ron says his mum and dad can Apparate, so they’ll get home alright. We thought this through.  _

“What did you say to them?” Ginny laughed, taking the parchment from her hands.

“I knew they’d stolen the flying car again,” Phoenix shrugged, “of course.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows and sighed—an act she normally reserved for when Harry and Ron were present—and said in a very matter-of-fact tone, “If the boys aren’t on the train when we arrive at Hogsmeade, the professors are bound to take notice.”

It was an obvious assumption, but she meant more than she’d said:  _ If they aren’t there when the train arrives at Hogsmeade, the professors are bound to notice them arriving later in an  _ illegal _ , flying car. _

“They could get expelled.”

There was little they knew how to do from their position, but they had one very big, important power sitting right in the palms of their hands...Hermione and Ginny dug into their trunks searching for their quills and parchment while Phoenix gave Hemera a treat and, after quick consultations with one another about what should be disclosed and  _ how _ , began to furiously write letters for their individual recipients. Hermione penned a long, detailed account of what had taken place, including the time she and Phoenix each arrived at Platform 9¾, how they got word from Harry and Ron after the train had departed, and then—in an eloquent, over-complicated manner that none of them could have reproduced—explained in her own words the reasons the boys gave for taking Mr. Weasley’s flying car. It was partly an appeal to Dumbledore’s sympathy, while also admitting that they all knew that Harry and Ron’s decision wasn’t the  _ best _ they’d ever made...

Ginny, meanwhile, was tasked with using her place as the baby of the household to write to her parents; her letter was short and rather to the point, but they all knew that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would at least be grateful to know that, so far, the boys were safe. 

Phoenix copied their letters line-for-line  _ twice _ and stored them inside one of her textbooks for safe-keeping. It was important that, should anyone demand to know what exactly was said to a particular recipient at any time—for example, if the Weasleys received word from Hogwarts and wanted to know what Hermione had sent them—then all of their information lined up. This was also to keep it clear in their own responses: they knew what they’d said and to whom, without any worry of repeating themselves or leaving out facts. The task was long and tedious, since her Quick Quotes substitute could only do one letter at a time, and so Phoenix resorted to writing much of it by hand as a second quill worked, seemingly by itself, on another piece of parchment, transcribing whatever Ginny read aloud.

When the girls finished their letters and had double-checked that everyone agreed on the contents, Phoenix scribbled one last thing and sent it to Harry and Ron:

_ We’re sending word to the Weasleys and Dumbledore. This is the best way we can figure to keep you out of trouble; at least you’ll have our correspondence as proof that you used the car as a last resort. If we don’t, we’re afraid they’ll expel you on the spot. _

_ Also, we’ll need to use Hedwig, too, if you won’t mind sending her down to us; we’re in the second-to-last car. The window will be open. _

Phoenix rolled up the letters for Harry and Ron and Dumbledore, tied them to Hemera’s leg with a piece of twine from her packaged potions supplies, then sent the little tawny thing out the window with an owl treat and a kiss to her forehead.

They all kept an eye on the window for the next ten minutes or so, until an unmistakable snowy owl flew down to glide parallel to the car window. Hedwig might have been too large to comfortably fit through the opening, because, rather than swooping in like they all had expected, she bid her time, slowly drawing nearer the train until she could dive in with one wing folded. 

“Thanks, Hedwig,” Phoenix muttered as she hurriedly unraveled their reply from her left leg. 

_ Alright, but  please, send something from the trolley first. Keep whatever’s left over. Thanks. _

Hedwig was standing impatiently in her seat with her right leg outstretched. No one had noticed the small bag tied to it, so thin that it fit neatly beneath her feathers while she was flying. 

“How much did they give us?” 

Ginny leaned curiously forward, anticipating Phoenix’s response; Harry had thrown several Galleons into the purse—no doubt, due to his limited experience with wizard currency, he had no idea how much money he’d actually given them—and both purebloods’ eyes widened as Phoenix laid each piece of gold in her palm. Sure, five Galleons wasn’t a lot in most instances, but all that for  _ candy _ ? 

They waited for the lady with the trolley to pass their car, then each bought several sweets, drool practically dripping from the corners of their lips at the possibilities...Phoenix wrapped some Bertie Botts Every Flavored Beans and containers of pumpkin juice into the parcel she’d been keeping her potions supplies in (she amended this by wrapping a cloak around and between the vials and ingredients instead, so that nothing should break), wrote a short response, and sent Hedwig back with these things hanging from twine in her talons. She looked rather displeased at the bulky package, but continued on without fuss.

Several hours later, Phoenix wondered whether or not Hemera would return to the train before reading the station in Hogsmeade, and, if so, whether she would be carrying some sort of disappointed reply from Dumbledore. 

Hermione leaned against the smaller girl’s arm to read and eventually fell asleep,  _ Gadding With Ghouls  _ spread open on her lap, even as Phoenix and Ginny continued to prattle on about insignificant things; they’d exhausted most of the obvious topics while at the Burrow and, while they were still able to find things to discuss, Phoenix couldn’t help but feel as if they both were a bit bored with their conversation. 

“I don’t remember you writing in a diary,” she mentioned, not really certain what else to say. “Did I just never notice it, or…”

Ginny glanced at her open trunk—the thin, black book sat on top of her texts. 

“It’s for school.” 

“Oh.” She didn’t push; Ginny was blushing again, and Phoenix had a feeling she’d been the reason why the redhead hadn’t taken her diary out during her visit.

 

By the time the train stopped, they were sufficiently tired; Hermione, who’d slept a quarter of the trip, was yawning as they sluggishly re-packed their trunks, Ginny’s eyes were halfway shut while she shuffled through the crowd on the platform—that is, until she spotted Hagrid and immediately cheered up—and Phoenix was anxious to see  _ something _ that would put her mind at ease. Neither Hemera nor Hedwig had returned with news from any of their recipients, and Phoenix was almost sure that she, Hermione, and Ginny would somehow be guilty by association. 

“Calm down, we’re fine,” Hermione whispered. 

The platform at Hogsmeade was plagued now by a bitter air. It was a strange, chilly sensation, like that of a motionless breeze or a cloudless fog: unnatural seeming, though distinct in its impression. They pulled their robes tighter around themselves as they left the  train station for the cars waiting to take them the last length of their journey. The second-year students were fumbling to yet a new form of magical transportation: the previous year, they were ushered toward the Black Lake and, from there, were made to glide across the smooth waters, which were as dark and haunting as the shadowy forest beyond, disturbing the dull pattern of stars and yellow lanterns that spotted the mysterious realm beneath them. That medium, however, was reserved for those who had not yet been Sorted—for those who had never witnessed the majesty and beauty of Hogwarts and, so, were subjected to it in true dramatic fashion: a trick of contrast, night against the distant stars and the eerie glow of candlelight through ancient glass windows, that created a sort of magic, a  _ wonderment _ , that could not be produced by simple spells. Phoenix hadn’t taken notice of this deliberate experience then—and wouldn’t for some years to come—but she surely felt the difference between it and the new one on which she was about to embark. 

Now, they all walked as part of a crowd toward a line of dark carriages, unremarkable in their make, save the two yellow lanterns that each had hanging in front, which cast a morbid hue against the grey and black flesh of their guides. These, Phoenix thought, were the stuff of nightmares: skeletal horses with long, bat-like wings, which were so thin and papery that they seemed, if possible, to have already begun to decay.  It was hard to make out any details of their strange, gaunt figures with only the light from the platform and carriage headlights, disturbed as they were by the shadows of passing students. Even worse, the creatures’ own boney frames seemed to distort themselves by breaking the light, making their natural juts and recesses look deeper now, in near darkness, than it would (or so, she supposed) if one of the lamps were to be held directly above them. 

“Hey, Nyx!” Jasper said cheerfully from a carriage on their right. “We’ve got room for four!”

Phoenix and Hermione wound their way through the oncoming students and took their seats; both Jasper and Alexandria were already waiting patiently for the line to begin to move. The latter’s eyes were slightly swollen, as if she’d stopped crying only a short time ago, and she seemed to be startled out of her thoughts as the two girls climbed up into the carriage.

“Hullo,” she said. Then, as if finally noticing who they were, gave a quick glance around and asked, “Where are Harry and Ron?” 

“That’s a long story,” Phoenix muttered, trying not to gain attention, which was difficult to do whenever the Boy-Who-Lived was involved. “How have you two been?” 

Alex swallowed; both she and Jasper glanced at one another, but their eyes flicked back so quickly that Phoenix almost didn’t notice. 

“Great,” the strawberry blonde said. 

The carriage fell more or less to silence as the horse-like creatures all began to stir, lifting their hooves impatiently and looking about the thinning crowd; when the way was clear, the first car began to move down the dirt road and, one by one, those behind it did the same, following its departure toward the castle grounds while, above, brilliant white stars began to speckle their dark backdrop. Phoenix watched the animal as it dragged their carriage effortlessly; Hermione, on her right, was staring off into nothing.

“What are you looking at?” she asked. 

“The...the horse, or whatever it is.” The smaller girl immediately felt inadequate, not being able to name the beast that was so distinct in form, especially as someone who dedicated so much of her time to studying magical creatures. She began to wrack her brain for any description she’d read that might explain what it was. 

“What horse?” Jasper turned around, as if expecting something to emerge from the woods. “It’s so dark—how can you see it?”

“Never mind,” Phoenix mumbled. She had the sneaking suspicion the others couldn’t see the creature, so she resolved to keep this idea to herself. 

Then Hermione, who remembered her and Harry’s detention from the previous year, began on a long monologue all about unicorns—what powers they supposedly possessed, how she’d never seen one and hoped to do so someday, the number of them she suspected to be in the Forbidden Forest, etc.—but Phoenix was only half paying attention. They were coming quickly to the castle, where a lonely cloaked figure was standing at the bottom of the stone stairs.

As their carriage pulled up, the witch began moving towards them. Phoenix could make out the distinct square spectacles and thin-lipped expression of Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House. She nudged Hermione as the latter continued to chatter and nodded toward their teacher, who was waiting patiently with her hands crossed over what looked to be a roll of parchment.

“Miss Skimple,” the woman rasped as they exited the carriage, “Miss Granger, would you two come with me please?”

“Is there a problem, professor?” Jasper asked. He was several steps behind the Gryffindors, but managed somehow to make it to Phoenix’s side within a matter of moments. “I’m sure that anything they’ve done—”

“Stand down, Mister Skimple,” she smirked. “Your sister is simply being called to straighten out a matter with another student. I assure you, she’s done nothing to warrant punishment.” 

She led them then up the stone stairs, past the Great Hall, where the others were taking their seats for the Sorting Ceremony, and to her office. Phoenix had only been inside it once before, when Harry had caught Neville’s remembrall and earned his place on the Gryffindor Quidditch team; it was a small room, with a large, welcoming fireplace and a beautiful view of the training pitch (though, at the moment, they could perceive little more than a pale green-white plain of grass). 

“I want to do this quickly,” McGonagall said, taking a seat at her desk. She motioned for the girls to do the same. “No one wants to blame you—even in part—for what has happened to your friends, but we do want to confirm what you’ve written here...Miss Granger, it states that  _ you _ were the one to write it?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“And something similar was sent to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley?”

“Yes,” Phoenix answered, clutching the skirt of her robes. “I kept copies of each letter, if you’d like to see them, Professor. They’re with my textbooks.”

McGonagall looked surprised—her eyebrows rose, seemingly of their own accord, and one corner of her mouth twisted nearly imperceptibly into a hint of a smile—but there was also a spark of pride in her rigid posture, as if the girls’ actions were something of note. 

“I will discuss that later with Professor Dumbledore,” she said. “For now, it would suffice to give me your statements: How are they?”

The second years looked to each other for answers.

“The truth is, Professor,” Hermione muttered, shrinking suddenly as if in trouble, “we haven’t heard from Harry and Ron since we sent you our letter. They wanted some sweets from the trolley, and they were doing well following the train, but that’s all we know.”

McGonagall turned then to Phoenix, who nodded.

“You’ve written this, but I want to hear it again: Why did they choose to fly Mr. Weasley’s car, rather than arrive by train?”

It was now that Phoenix realized they hadn’t given  _ her _ perspective on the whole issue; if they knew that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were contacted, and were (so far) declining the offer to read the girls’ copies—something Phoenix had made in order to comply with what she knew to be official Ministry procedure—then it was safe to conclude that Dumbledore and McGonagall had already received the letter to the Weasleys, or, at least, were given enough detail that the perceived need for the exact original was deemed moot. 

“Harry wants to come back to Hogwarts more than anything,” she piped up. There was a strange hesitation about this admission, like she was spilling some intense secret, and her posture dissolved accordingly. “He’s told me so since he arrived at the Burrow—about a month ago—and we would talk about it for  _ hours _ . Both of us sort of...sort of hate going home at the end of the year, and we don’t really have anyone else to go to who feels that way.

“That’s why I believe him when he said they couldn’t make it through the barrier to Platform 9¾,” she continued, diverting her eyes from McGongall by staring, instead, at the window behind her. “Harry wouldn’t jeopardize his chance to come back unless he thought there was no other way…” 

A moment passed in silence. McGonagall took her glasses off and cleaned them on the inside of her robes.

“The Sorting will begin in a few minutes,” the deputy headmistress said, pushing her spectacles into place. “I suppose we should join the others in the Great Hall.” 

The three stood and made their way down the stairs, the din of the anxious students building, louder and louder, not only with proximity, but with the excitement of the Sorting Ceremony and feast growing nearer. They rounded the final corner when Phoenix saw Dumbledore; he was sitting at the High Table in robes of dark indigo, with silver and gold embroidery to emulate the stars. To their left, the first years stood on the steps, waiting to be ushered in. 

“Professor?” Phoenix asked McGonagall, just as the headmaster turned to watch them through his half-moon spectacles, which, as always, sat on the end of his crooked nose. “Is someone watching for Harry and Ron to return?”

The Transfigurations teacher glanced knowingly toward Dumbledore.

“Professor Snape,” she sighed in a way that positively conveyed  _ I don’t like it either, but I have other duties to attend to and can’t do it myself _ . Then, in a sweep of emerald robes, she motioned for the Gryffindors to take their seats beneath the clear, star-speckled night—a tricky spell had been cast on the ceiling of the Great Hall so that it always mimicked the sky above—and left to give her instructions to the anxious, quivering first years.

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

Ginny’s name was called and the hall went silent. It seemed as if the Weasley name was popular enough at Hogwarts to be recognized by most of the students, for they all seemed to be on edge, waiting to see if the seventh Weasley in her generation would be placed in the same House as her brothers—the Professors, who knew that their parents had both been in Gryffindor as well, were all impatient to learn if their legacy would continue. 

The Sorting Hat was barely on Ginny’s head a moment when it shouted “GRYFFINDOR!” and the Great Hall burst into applause. 

“WE GOT THE LOT!” Lee Jordan and his friends began to scream.

Others began to chant the girl’s name, as if she’d just scored the winning goal for the Quidditch Cup.

Confident as she normally was, Ginny strode somewhat timidly toward Hermione and Phoenix, finding a seat between them and the twins. 

“Any doubts?” Phoenix asked.

“Plenty,” she answered, brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear. “What’s next?”

“Dinner.”

“Perfect.”

Phoenix was too distracted throughout the feast to eat much; she kept checking the High Table to see if Snape had returned. He hadn’t though, and, by the time pudding was served, Phoenix was beginning to worry that either the boys hadn’t yet arrived at Hogwarts, meaning they’d somehow gotten lost or crashed,  _ or _ that they were in such severe trouble that they weren’t being allowed to join the feast. She was focusing so much on locating the Potions Master, however, that she hadn’t noticed Dumbledore had disappeared...That is, not until he came striding into the Great Hall again, with the former sulking at his heels. The headmaster turned immediately, as if sensing her gaze, and winked.

Snape nodded curtly in Phoenix's direction.

“What’s that about?” Fred asked.

“She’s his favorite, remember?” said George.

Rumour had already begun to spread as to why Harry and Ron weren’t at the Gryffindor Table: the majority were divided, some claiming that they’d overslept and missed the train, others wondering whether they’d been expelled for underaged magic over the summer; the Slytherins were buzzing with news of a flying car that was spotted by several Muggles in London; and some of them were even able to connect those little bits of information and conclude (wrongly, of course, but not without reason) that the boys had been expelled for a different sort of misuse of magic. Draco Malfoy seemed especially thrilled at the notion that their little stunt might have also gotten Mr. Weasley fired from the Ministry. 

“Ignore him,” Hermione whispered when Phoenix began to fume. “He’s just doing it to make us mad.”

“Well, it’s working,” Fred mumbled into his treacle tart. 

“Professor McGonagall’s back,” the Muggle-born added hopefully. “She doesn’t look all that upset...Well, not any more than normal.” 

Phoenix considered this; between the Head of House’s usual mood, and Snape’s gloomier one, she wondered whether Harry and Ron had somehow gotten off easy  _ again _ . Dumbledore rose the moment McGonagall took her seat at the High Table and began to make his customary start-of-term speech. But she was drowning out the headmaster’s words—while he was a strangely eloquent speaker when he wanted to be, he was simply relaying facts and rules that Phoenix and the rest of the second-through-seventh years already knew; several minutes later, when he’d concluded his oratory with a bit of nonsense, then dismissed the students to bed, Phoenix was torn from her thoughts by the sudden applause. 

Despite having been so frustrated with Malfoy’s presumptions, the twins and Lee were excited by rumours of a flying car. They, along with most of the House, crowded around the Common Room, setting off fireworks and passing around Honeydukes candies. Most Gryffindors were so eager to see them arrive that they refused to go up to their dormitories in case the two boys should make their appearance in the few minutes it would take for them to unpack. Not everyone was thrilled, however: Hermione, who was in a sour mood, considering her House’s reaction to such blatant and reckless rule-breaking, decided to wait for Harry and Ron outside the tower to give them the password and also deal them out a much-needed talking-to; Phoenix and Ginny were over the hype, having both been involved in the boys’ adventures to a small extent since noon. The latter two dismissed themselves to bed early.

Whereas the Common Room was an exposion of scarlet—everything from the squashy armchairs, to the walls, to the carpet being the same vibrant hue, and somewhat matched by the bright fireplace, which was always lit—the girls’ dormitory was a round, stone chamber with five four-poster beds around the edge and a dark grey metal heater in the center. The red bedsheets were almost negligible, compared to the colour of the room below, and Phoenix found her eye drawn most to the faint brilliance from the stars, which, cast through the thick, off-coloured windows, drowned the dorm in a light so soft that, rather than covering the surfaces like paint, it combined with whatever hue it touched, creating blue shades out of grey stones and subtle pinks out of vibrant scarlets. 

She had come to notice such things recently. Perhaps it was a ploy to forget—her parents, her choice of House, her green-riddled nightmares, Quirrel,  _ Voldemort _ . A coping mechanism strong enough to drive her mad.

Phoenix drew the curtains of her four-poster shut and pulled her sheets up over her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Muggles do know more than we give them credit for, don’t they?...I mean, you’d never know it was this roomy from the outside, would you?” (66).

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think! I'd love to hear from you guys, as always.


End file.
